


Ribbon Tied Right

by Snowy_Rain



Series: Amortentia/Love Potions [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amortentia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cedric Diggory Lives Too, Character Development, I have been told that this is very funny, In which I have my phone and laptop confiscated, LGBTQ Characters, Love Letters, M/M, No Bashing, Oopsie Voldemort falls in love because of a super vague theory on love potions, Set in Sixth Year, Sirius Black Lives, Slow Burn, TEMPORARY Hiatus, This is My Design, Voldemort Is Smitten, and end up unable to write on schedule, do not copy to another site, love potion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23666248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowy_Rain/pseuds/Snowy_Rain
Summary: Voldemort caves in to his curiosity and doses himself with Amortentia. This sets off a chain reaction that the likes of Severus Snape could have never foreseen.A journey through emotions.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Series: Amortentia/Love Potions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760770
Comments: 484
Kudos: 883





	1. Aqua Regia

**Author's Note:**

> In Victorian times (apparently), a ribbon tied to the right on a bouquet meant that the flowers' message was in regards to the recipient.

Contrary to popular belief, Severus did not spend his days wallowing in his pitiful, woeful life. Yes, he might be the professor of every Merlin-damned first-to-seventh grader that is, and he might be the double agent of both Albus Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, but that does not mean he is without free time. As improbable as that is.

He runs an owl-order poitons’ shop. His customers are generally the wealthy and influential purebloods who are willing to pay his weight in gold for some  _ questionable  _ elixirs. Severus either receives the ingredients from his clientele -- from those who are cocksure -- or he prepares them himself and charges accordingly. 

This was not the first time he had brewed a cauldron of Amortentia. In fact, it might be one of the most popular orders he has received.

_ I could spend my days without smelling another whiff of this wretched potion,  _ he mused, stirring through sheer muscle memory of the recipe. 

He decided that if this one paid as well as the others, this would be the last time he brewed the love potion ever again. Once was enough. More was hell. Though the smell was pleasant, it was not the sort of pleasant he enjoyed sniffing constantly. There was a limit before he lost his sense of smell entirely.

As the colour turned from black to a glowing pink, Severus gave a breath of relief and stirred one last time, whipping out his wand and casting a statis charm right after.

Truthfully, Hogwarts’ potions laboratories were…  _ nice.  _ But they did not give off the atmosphere he liked, so he preferred to perform his hobbies in a place of suitable decor -- lights dimmed and the tables’ woods inky African Blackwood, waxed and luxurious.

Yes. He was brewing Amortentia in the Dark Lord’s dungeon. He had permission. Severus did  _ not  _ want to relive the experience that was  _ receiving  _ that permission from the Dark Lord, however. 

With one lasting glance at the batch of the potion, Severus reached into the under-table cabinet for some vials --  _ no. _

Incredulous, he crouched and stuck his head as deep into the cabinet as it could go, yet there were no vials to be seen.  _ Where were they?  _ He could have sworn that he had stocked on them beforehand--

_ “Severus.” _

_ “Yes, my Lord?” _

_ “Three cauldrons of blood-replenishing potions for my men, if you would.” _

Of course. Anything for the  _ Lord _ . 

Letting loose some choices swear words, he resigned himself to another errand for Hogsmeade’s apothecary. Tomorrow.

***

He did not usually take strolls in Malfoy Manor. The architecture was in poor taste, and he had already seen the entirety of the building with Abraxas,  _ including  _ the secret passages that only the lord of the house knew.

The decision to walk through the dungeon was more of a whim. He had both wanted to check on Severus’ work and riffle through the ingredient cabinets.

When he entered however, he was alone in the laboratory. He gave a cursory look around, yet he only confirmed what he knew. His servant must have left early. That was hardly a problem -- if he knew the man well,  _ and he did,  _ he would have left his potion in the dungeon, lest he ruin the mixture.

He strode toward Severus’ favorite corner, right under a portrait of an elderly Malfoy ancestor, clad in jewels. Lord Voldemort guessed that rather than a liking for the ancestor, Severus enjoyed this spot for its cool and humid air. How alike the professor.

Caressing the ebony wood beneath his fingers, he peered curiously over and into the cauldron, recognizing the warm shine immediately. The rosy glow lit his skin a light pink, and when he lifted his hand to stare through the spaces of his fingers, he could see the lines of his veins under the translucent skin. He sneered.

“I wonder why,” he uttered, and took a handle of the cauldron. He entertained the thought of flipping it over for a second, but discarded it promptly. It would not do to anger his servant without a reason. Lord Voldemort enjoyed others’ gratitude.

A thought occurred to him then, one that would not have seen the light of his conscious mind had he any control over it; yet he  _ did  _ think it, and he  _ wondered. _

He  _ had  _ read research papers on the elixir. There had been one study conducted that had questioned what would happen if one took a dose without keying it to anyone. At the time, he had been searching ways of influence, and foolishly sought it in the simplistic art of potions. The study had been concluded with the result of a wizard obsessively in love with his own self for a day -- slightly longer than the usual duration, but not much.

Now, Lord Voldemort wondered how it would feel to be so hopelessly in love with himself. He, of course, already felt pride for all that he had achieved, but could that be the whole scope of his  _ feelings?  _

This was nothing but pure curiosity. The joy of discovery was plaguing him. How  _ fascinating  _ would it be to know such a feeling? To tame an emotion, one first needed to flood oneself in it.

Finding a clean ladle nearby, Lord Voldemort scooped one dose and brought it under his nose. Excitement was coursing through his veins, setting alight his blood. Had he a human’s skin, he might have had goosebumps.

An experimental sniff. To him, it did not smell of anything. If he had to name it, he would say that it smelled  _ clean.  _ It was like the scent of freshly fallen snow, the clear mountain air, the taste of water -- but none of them. All of them at the same time. Or rather, something in between.

Confused by such a mysterious fragrance --  _ or lack of  _ \-- he brought the rim to his lips, letting the pink glow touch his mouth. As expected, nothing happened, but he could feel his elevated heart beat, pulsing deep beneath him. 

The potion scared him.

Bashing that weakness in, he opened his mouth and let it flow in, swirling on his tongue with the strangest of tastes. Clear and cool, it almost felt like _ water. _

He swallowed.

***

And,  _ oh,  _ how to describe what happened next? Lord Voldemort, with decades of experience under his belt, beguiling sentences on the tip of his tongue, power like no other in his hands… He was mute to _ love. _

The first gulp made him ravenous for more. So he drank and drank, until he was licking the ladle clean of the potion. Like water, it cured his thirst -- like ash, it irritated his throat. When the whole dose was in him, it was as though a light had flashed before his eyes, and made to him visible countless colors he hadn’t seen before.

He caressed the ebony wood with his fingers, marveling at the softness and the velvety texture. He looked around the room, feeling as if he was seeing  _ everything _ for the first time for what they were. 

“What is happening to me?” he asked aloud. He wanted to feel fear, but he could not. Where fear was supposed to be, there was only a sense of contentment. 

He had never felt so peaceful before.

With that last thought, he wandered the empty laboratory and simply marveled at the small things.

“I remember acquiring these,” he murmured, touching a sprig of fern flowers tied together. “That old lady hadn’t thought to lock the fence in the morning -- I stole the blooms right under her nose as she screamed murder at me.

“And these beady little gems!” he exclaimed, somewhat surprised even though he should not be. He took one of them and lifted it up to his face. “Oh, I forgot these were even here. Were these for something special? How odd, I don’t remember. I have had so many ventures in my youth…”

So many memories, resurfacing only now. Where had they gone to, before? He felt as if he was freed of a darkness riding on his shoulders, and finally he could see beauty where he stood.

“How could a love potion do this?” he wondered aloud, still holding the small jewel. “I do not feel more love for myself. Was it a failed batch? Is that why Severus put it on the corner?”

_ Severus…  _ His name invoked a deeper memory in him, a niggling impression in the back of his head. What was missing? There was something he had forgotten, but how could that be?

Severus -- his loyal servant, he had chosen this spot to brew his potions, because he could not bear the stuffy laboratories in Hogwarts. His loyal servant, who Voldemort respected because he fooled Albus Dumbledore on  _ his  _ orders. His loyal servant, who had access to--

_ Harry Potter,  _ the name bloomed within his mind, and his heart sang with a cry.  _ Harry Potter. _

Wide eyed and stupefied by his reaction, he put the gem back in the dish with an absentminded motion.

_ Harry Potter. _

“No,” he spoke, fighting the feeling futilely. “No. It can’t be. This doesn’t make sense.”

Yet the more he fought the influence of the potion --  _ this was fake, he could overcome it  _ \-- the more he sank into the comfortable wave of awe. The elixir worked in twists and turns, feinting and confusing his mind, invading every inch of him. Every small step forward became three steps backward, and he finally fell under its thrall.

***

Lucius had come across the Lord in a hallway.

“My Lord?” he inquired concernedly, eyeing the man’s strange posture. “Are you…  _ comfortable?” _

“Comfortable?” the Dark Lord repeated, as if surprised. After a few moments of consideration, “I  _ am _ , I suppose. Why do you ask, Lucius? You are not my host, and I am not a guest. Go and bother someone else.”

Bowing hurriedly, “Yes, I beg your forgiveness, my Lord. I acted impudently.”

“Yes, yes.” The Lord waved a disinterested hand. “Move along, now. I have matters to attend to.”

The Dark Lord continued, but stopped in his tracks after a few steps.

“Lucius,” he said. Lucius gulped in response. “You are in a high position in the Ministry.”

“I am, my Lord.”

“Do you… have access to Hogwarts’ student files?”

“Not right now, but with a few bribes, I can.”

“Wonderful,” the man said. “Do it. I want everything you can find that is related to Harry Potter.”

“Does that…” Lucius buried his fear down. “Does that also include the files in the Department of the Regulation of Underage Magic as well as the ones in Child Welfare?”

The Dark Lord seemed thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.  _ Every  _ document related to him. Leave nothing out.”

He was going to have to call in some  _ big  _ favors.

***

How to explain how love felt? He certainly did not intend to tell anyone that he had fallen for Harry Potter, however temporary that was, but he needed to sort out his thoughts. He had lost the ability to organize his thoughts properly, because  _ Harry Potter  _ suffused every thought.

He locked himself in his room, aware that no one would find it odd. He just needed… a few moments of  _ silence  _ and  _ privacy _ .

He had drunk the potion thinking it would not affect him -- at least, not like this. He was bursting with urges and emotions he didn’t know, and it  _ scared  _ him. Why was he so happy? Why was he so eager to  _ see  _ him?

So for hours, he sat in front of the fireplace asking the necessary questions and receiving mind-boggling answers. Was this what it was like to have a heart? How did people live with this sensation every day?

It was excruciating, but it was the sweetest of feelings. Everywhere he looked, everything he touched, everything he heard became  _ so darling,  _ that he didn’t know what to do with all of it. 

Oh, and the way his  _ name  _ sounded -- he could spend an eternity doing nothing but reciting his name, infused with love as he was…

_ Focus!  _

He rubbed his temples, sighing. Perhaps… Perhaps he should wait until sundown to think this through.

In the meantime, he wanted to bask in this warm glow in his chest. 

***

“He likes Quidditch, doesn’t he?” he spoke to himself. There was a book on Quidditch on his lap, the pages embossed with detailed illustrations. “Would he like a book about it?”

He shook his head right after, closing the book with a firm hand. “Perhaps he dislikes books? I vaguely remember Severus mentioning it.”

Well, the exact words had been that  _ Potter was a menace concerned only by his whims,  _ but Voldemort found that hard to believe now. Harry Potter was selfless -- he knew that much. Though a lot could be said about foolhardy Gryffindors, the boy had never gotten into trouble during the time he had watched him.

“That says nothing about an affinity to books, however. I ought to send it to him regardless. He might like it, or he might not -- I don’t need Quidditch books.”

Lucius would cry rivers for losing a cherished piece of his collection. It was a funny picture, therefore he decided to do it as soon as his reports came in.

“What else? Oh--”

No. Merlin -- he could not gift a teenage boy with only stacks of books! Though he knew he would have liked that when  _ he  _ was young, he was quite aware that his interests did not extend to others’. 

“Is this wise?” he asked to the flickering fire. “He likely doesn’t have a fondness for me. Ah, that gives me a heartache. At least… At least I shall be free of this soon.” He glanced at the high windows and the orange light of sunset streaming in.

“Soon, it will be gone.”

***

When the potion lost its effect, Lord Voldemort was buried back into the darkness of his daily life. The sudden change rattled him to the bone, and he pulled his duvet around him like a shield.

“No.” Eyes tightly closed, he gripped his wand. “This is what I need. I must become myself again. This isn’t wrong. I am…  _ happier  _ now.”

He felt Nagini’s presence before he heard it, but he welcomed her nonetheless. She slithered up into the soft bedding and hissed in contentment, winding around his torso underneath the covers. 

_ Master,  _ she called out.  _ Master. You are hurt. _

_ “I’m not hurt,”  _ he told her.  _ “I am as I always was.” _

_ Hurt,  _ she said again. The sorrow in her voice made him cave, letting her nuzzle closer.

He lied tucked underneath the heavy duvet with his companion, simply existing in silence.

_ “I wanted to give him a book,”  _ Voldemort said, feeling shame overcome him as soon as he did. 

_ You’re hurt, Master. _

_ “I’m not.” _

_ I can smell your pain,  _ she refuted him.  _ Hurt. _

Her voice. So  _ quiet, _ so  _ miserable _ \-- it made him feel worse. Anger followed, for he had never wanted this mess of emotions in him. 

_ Don’t be hurt,  _ Nagini commanded. She wound tighter around him.  _ Heal yourself, Master. _

“How to heal a heart,” he wondered, petting her smooth, scaled body.  _ “I don’t know how.” _

_ Then learn how to,  _ she shot back and fell silent, drifting off to a deep slumber.

_ ‘Learn how to heal a heart,’  _ he thought to himself, feeling determination fill him.  _ ‘I don’t know how, but I know how to bandage it.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: “How did people live with this sensation every day?” Yep, that is a blatant reference to Call Me Home by aerynevenstar, that one famous fic in One Punch Man fandom.


	2. Actus me invito factus non est meus actus.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The act done by me against my will is not my act.”_

Severus didn't like disorder. Not at all. If anything, he would say that he despised it. 

One could also say that he hated discrepancies as well, and they would be right. Severus hated anything to do with disorderly nonsense, and that nonsense included divergences from plans and life’s unexpected stones thrown at him.

Namely, his cauldron of Amortentia disappearing. 

“Who could have done this?” he asked himself and fumed, knowing that wayward emotions never win anything yet unable to keep calm under such anger. “Whoever did this, I’ll slay them and throw the body into the Black Lake. I hope they  _ choke  _ on that love.”

While anger was satisfying, it did not solve anything unless applied to an endeavor. So Severus made a decision and swept out of the laboratory to request an audience with the Dark Lord.

“Good morning, Severus,” Lucius greeted him on his way to the Dark Lord’s chambers. “Where are you headed?”

“The Dark Lord.”

“Oh. Is that so?”

Severus tore himself out of his fury for one moment to take a careful look at Lucius, his sunken face and the dark shadows under his eyes.

“Has something been troubling you, old friend?” he asked, expecting either a hard-to-pass bill or a particularly righteous enemy in the Wizengamot.

Lucius sighed and rubbed his chin, contemplating whether to tell him or not -- which raised alarm bells in Severus’ mind immediately.

“Honestly?” the man asked. “I’m not sure if you can help. It has to do with… our Lord.”

“I will not betray your secrets. You know this.”

Lucius nodded. “That I do.” He paused a short while, switching between decisions, but finally settled on one. “Very well. It’s a bit out of the ordinary, however.”

“I’ll listen and I'll listen with all ears.”

“That much is true I guess.”

Lucius glanced at the empty corners of the hallway, striking Severus as uncharacteristically paranoid, and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“The Dark Lord,” Lucius murmured. “Be careful, Severus. When he gave me my current orders, he seemed strange somehow, in a way I can't hope to explain.”

“Try anyway.”

“It was the air around him,” the man said. “I could feel that something was amiss, but I don't know enough to  _ really  _ know.  _ Merlin, _ Severus, what if he’s planning to get rid of me!”

“Calm down, Lucius,” Severus pacified him with a hand on his shoulder. “You know as much as I do that the Dark Lord is not one to kill his followers. You have already received punishment -- so long as you don’t fail again, you won’t get hurt.”

“That might be right… Say, would you mind drinking together sometime? For old times’ sake? I hardly see you around anymore.”

“Perhaps you ought to look into the laboratory,” Severus shot back dryly. Lucius laughed quietly at his answer, the sound travelling well in the empty corridor.

“It was good talking to you, Severus, but I'm keeping you. Do go on.”

Severus dipped his head in farewell. “I’ll see you later, Lucius.”

With his friendship duties done, Severus continued his way to the Dark Lord’s lair, his anger simmering low in his belly again, preparing to burst out of his mouth in fiery molten lava.

Along his way to the top of the staircases, he encountered many recruits passing by him skittishly, no doubt fearful of his ranking and the favor he held. He paid them no mind and arrived at the grand, ostentatiously built doors that housed the dark lord, waiting to be noticed by the magic weaved before him.

_ Severus,  _ a hiss swirled into his mind.  _ You have come to me unexpectedly. Do come in. _

He took a deep breath, watching as the tangle of wards parted into an opening to let him in. Walking into the belly of the beast, he swallowed when the magic grazed his head, a softly sharp touch that put the fear of power into him.

_ “Ah,”  _ the Lord whispered sibilantly as Severus came in, kneeling before him. “Severus. It is always a pleasure to have you here. Tell me, what is the…  _ purpose  _ of this surprise visit?”

“My Lord,” Severus spoke, the familiarity of groveling grounding his mind. “I have a wish.”

“And what wish would that be, my favored servant? Do you require a rare ingredient, perhaps?” the Dark Lord chuckled with a quiet, airy exhalation. “Vacation? Privilege? Tell me, don’t shy away.”

“None of what you have listed, my Lord,” Severus replied. “I am…  _ unsure _ if this will displease you.”

The Lord tilted his head. Severus couldn’t keep his eyes from following the shine on the bald, pale skin of his head, even though it was perturbing down to the bone.

“Tell me.”

“I have discovered that my potion was stolen,” he said, lowering his head again. “I have invested my months into this batch, and the client is impatient. Yet beyond all this, I find that the prospect of…  _ someone  _ stealing my hard-brewed potion is aggravating. I wish for the culprit to be found, if possible, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord watched him with his darkened, scarlet eyes. Severus blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing right -- had the lord’s eyes always been that dark? Somehow, he remembered them being brighter.

_ The lighting, maybe,  _ he told himself, but he was not convinced. Slowly, his eyes registered strange anomalies on the Dark Lord, oddities he had not even known had existed before he saw the extremely dilated pupils of his deep red eyes.

_ No,  _ he knew then.  _ It is not the lighting. _

“Interesting,” the Lord said, leaning back in his high seat, running his palms along the soft velvet of the cushioned armrests. He seemed inordinately enthralled by the texture, repeating the gesture again, yet not so rapidly that it would seem strange to the casual onlooker.

“I confess that I had not been expecting such a request,” the man continued, still avoiding Severus’ gaze. Leaving the armrests be, he took a hold of his bone-white wand and stroked it instead.

Severus swallowed.

“I apologize if I overstepped my boundaries, my Lord,” Severus tried to pacify, for he knew he might have inadvertently roused the dark wizard’s ire. “If that is so, I shall leave empty handed, yet still a content servant of yours. The _ Dark _ takes priority over everything else.”

“Yes, that would be wise of you,” the Dark Lord said. “But will you be satisfied then? What of the  _ thief  _ that stole your precious elixir?”

“As long as I do not use the potion for my own benefit, I can brew it still. Amortentia only allows one batch’s use for each wizard. The thief will regret ever touching my cauldron.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Severus knew he had divulged too much, and said something wrong. The Dark Lord’s eyes snapped to his, shocking him with a jolt of pain through his dark mark.

“It seems I’ve shown those in my service too much lenience,” the Lord uttered softly, standing up and approaching his half-kneeling form. Severus shook in his position.

“Stand up, Severus. Won’t you humor me, your master?”

“I live to serve you, Master,” Severus repeated the title the man had thrown at him, trying to lighten his sentence, and obeyed the order.

The Dark Lord was a tall,  _ tall  _ man. He loomed over even Severus’ height, and  _ he  _ was tall for an average man. His eyes bore into his, and Severus prepared for an impromptu and violent visit into his mind.

The Dark Lord had a face that not many dared to look at. His cheeks were sunken into his skull, and his nose was flat with his nostrils alike a serpent’s. One could almost say that the man resembled a grim reaper more than he did a human. Severus wondered how he lived with such a frightening face sometimes.

A stray hiss drew both of their attention. The Lord’s pet, the enormous snake emerged from the shadows and slithered up to them, winding around their feet.

The Dark Lord outstretched a hand to it, letting the reptile climb up his arm onto his broad, bony shoulders.

_ He looks,  _ Severus thought to himself,  _ affectionate.  _

The man before him was an unnecessarily cruel, sadistic dark wizard, but it always threw him off when he saw these sorts of interactions. The snake brought out a foreign part of the dark lord.

Perhaps too foreign a part?

As Severus watched on he could not deny that something was odd about the exchange, no matter how casual the sight was. The Dark Lord seemed a bit too loving, maybe -- a bit too  _ open _ , maybe.

It disturbed him to see friendliness in those eyes.

“My  _ darling  _ tells me she wants to stroll around, Severus,” the Dark Lord informed him, petting his snake quite thoroughly, rubbing the head as one would a cat. “What do you say? Cruciatus, or obeying Nagini’s whims?”

It was either torture or pet-sitting, and Severus knew exactly which he would choose.

The man stretched his arm out, this time towards Severus, and the snake slipped onto his thin frame, burdening his weak shoulders.

“Show her around the manor,” the dark lord drawled, walking to the windows to stare at the enchanted landscape.

Severus bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”

As he walked to the door, however, Severus spared one last lingering look at the Dark Lord’s back, feeling an uncanny thought creep on him -- but he pushed it away, telling himself that it was impossible, no matter the symptoms.

\------

_ Voldemort could not sleep. _

_ He tossed and turned under his covers like an errant child, finally exhausted by the restlessness and the vague sadness that ripped him apart. _

_ Had it been an endless abyss of sorrow, perhaps he could have dealt with it. Instead, he was face to face with this tiny smidgen of yearning, an unclear haze of despair which reminded him of the happiness of the last twenty-something hours. _

_ Sensing his distress, Nagini wound tight around, and he buried his face into her scales. _

**_“I must go,”_ ** _ he told her, rising from the bed. She held onto his ankles petulantly but he resisted, crawling out from under the duvet. Slipping his cloak on, he headed out of his chambers and to the laboratory. _

_ This was torture, but he knew the cure, even if it was a brief reprieve. _

\------

Lord Voldemort attended to his duties as the Lord of the Dark, assigning tasks to his servants and recruiting as much as he could. Though this new  _ layer  _ of perception was disconcerting, he took care to study it well, and to control the impulsive side effects.

Therefore, when done with meetings, he poured over the many books of the Malfoy family and its impressive collection of love potion lore. When he ran out of material to study, he ordered those from his inner circle to bring in other texts -- with a precautionary vow of silence, of course. He was nothing if not cautious.

He did not want this to reach Severus’ ears.

Voldemort knew it was an immature fear, but he could not help but imagine the look on  _ Dumbledore’s  _ face if he learnt he was ingesting  _ love potions -- willingly.  _ He did not want anyone to know, and the less everyone knew, the more secure he was.

However, that didn’t mean that he spent his days hunching solely over books. The truth was more embarrassing than locking himself in the library.

“My -- My Lord,” Wormtail stuttered as he turned his abhorrent gaze on him, startling and nearly dropping the stack he was carrying. Righting himself by some miracle, he gingerly put it on his desk. “The -- The mag-magazines, my Lord.”

“Open your mouth.”

Wormtail did so, tensing in anticipation of the painful curse that bound his tongue, and Voldemort let the shadowy magic fly out of his wand’s tip into the stout man’s mouth, nearly choking him. When he was done casting the spell, Voldemort put his wand away and dismissed him, watching as the disgusting little rat scurried away in fear.

Done with the pesky bits, he turned his attention to the stack -- an embarrassment on his prestigious name, but he could not help himself. He was quite sure he would burn these without mercy once the potion was out of his system.

_ Witch Weekly  _ was trash. He could not find any other words for it. It was  _ literally  _ utter trash written for the entertainment of housewives _.  _ But he needed to see  _ Harry,  _ even if it was through glimpses in candid shots taken by enamored teenage witches.

He had ordered the rat to bring the last hundred or so issues, too curious for his own good. Before the potion incident, Voldemort had never been interested in this aspect of Harry Potter’s life, and now he found himself  _ brimming _ with interest.

He took the earliest copy in his hands, flipping through a few glossy pages. The material irritated him but it wasn’t too terrible, so he went back to the cover. As soon as he skimmed the headlines, his heart gave a lurch -- leaning into the terrible,  _ terrible  _ magazine, he read each dramatic headline with the worry of a man with a heartache, skipping the extra content to scour through numerous issues of Witch Weekly, 1994.

**_“Love Triangle In Hogwarts? Harry Potter and Victor Krum played by muggleborn Hermione Granger!”_ **

**_“Dirty Secrets of Yule! Is Harry Potter dating the Patil twins? Details on page 3!”_ **

_ Merlin,  _ he sighed to himself, feeling a twinge in his chest as he went through even more of these.  _ This is bad for my health. I should stop reading this gossip drivel. _

Yet he didn’t. Lord Voldemort painstakingly read each and every article written by the gossip-hungry witches of Wizarding Britain, putting himself through massive amounts of heart pain just for the smallest crumbles of truth written in between lines. Though most of it was obviously fake -- more than two thirds of it, in fact -- whenever he came across a tiny piece of real information, he felt a sense of calm and affection so  _ alien  _ that he hadn’t understood what it was, at first.

“He likes treacle tart,” he murmured to himself unknowingly as he stared at the image of the boy gobbling it down in side profile, the photo moving in repeat. 

Caressing the monochrome surface, he let a smile fill his face.

His heart wasn’t hurting too much now.

“My Lord?” 

Voldemort snapped the magazine closed and vanished it all, only realizing what he had done after the act, and turned around with rage to see who had interrupted his research.

“I’m sorry!” Young Draco fell onto his knees, touching his head to the ground and begging, “I’m sorry, my Lord! I didn’t notice you were in -- in the middle of important work!”

_ “Important work?”  _ he repeated, slowly and furiously, feeling the shame of what he had just done. “Everything I do is  _ important work,  _ **_filth._ ** Get out of my sight.”

But the Malfoy heir did not scurry along, and his impertinence made Voldemort even angrier, for he wanted to wallow in his embarrassment without an audience. He had whipped his wand out when Draco suddenly burst into apologies.

“I -- I apologize!” he whimpered, tears dripping onto the carpeted floor. “My -- My father--”

“What of your father, Draco?”

“He wished to -- to tell you that he has gained access to the information you requested!”

_ Oh. _

Lord Voldemort slipped his wand into the pocket of his robes, cursing his temperament. “Tell him to meet me here. It is…  _ incredibly  _ rude of him to not alert me himself.”

He needed to watch his symptoms. If anyone noticed his little  _ quirks,  _ wouldn’t all these wizards laugh at him behind closed doors? They certainly wouldn’t  _ praise  _ him for drinking a love potion for the sake of it.

\-----

“He has had a letter for illegal magic use sent to him during the summer of his first year,” Lucius reported. “In front of Muggles, apparently. A  _ Hover Charm.  _ In his second year’s summer--”

“Muggles,” Voldemort interrupted him with his musing, making the man sputter and fall silent. “Wasn’t he staying with his Muggle relatives?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Lucius agreed. “He has had a lot of incidents related to them. In his second summer after Hogwarts, before his third year, he apparently  _ ‘blew up’  _ his aunt and ran away with the Knight Bus. In 1994, Arthur Weasley filed a Floo accident report, citing that the Muggle residents of the house were already aware of magic. I have reason to believe these Muggles were Potter’s relatives.”

"Has he left an address?"

Lucius' lips stretched into a smirk. "He certainly did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bastassine for providing inspiration for the _Witch Weekly_ headlines!


	3. Bibo ergo sum.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I drink, therefore I am."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02.08.20 -- I edited a few of the details, because it didn't fit the 10th chapter. Sorry about that! (You'll notice some changes to the glamour spell scene.)

There was no time to waste, no reason to hesitate. Lord Voldemort left everything behind and left the manor at midnight, black against black in the darkness.

Before leaving, however, he had taken one dose of Amortentia with him, knowing that despite hating it, he would probably stay until dawn. If he felt that numbing miasma while in the home of the Chosen One, there was no telling what he would do.

There was also the thought of decimating _everything_ , he supposed. This infatuation could be stopped with complicated magical means, but to do that he needed a sound mind -- something he did not have when he _truly_ wanted to bring these plans to fruition. He was stuck in a rut without any exit.

If this was so, then he would ride it out. Until the bitter end when his potions ran out.

_Why not take advantage of this while I can?_

He apparated close to the location Lucius had provided him and hailed a taxi as it passed by.

“Where to?” the gruff Muggle asked, but he was already drawing his wand.

One _Confundus_ later, the man was as susceptible as a child promised with sweets.

“Little Whinging,” Voldemort said. The Muggle nodded lazily and drove on, leaving behind a puff of smoke as the vehicle sped up the asphalt.

It occurred to him that his exquisite face was rather distinctive, though only very later on. Checking the time, he saw that nearly one hour had passed and started drumming his fingers on his thigh.

“How much longer?”

“Only about fifteen minutes, sir.”

_Cutting it close,_ he estimated. Raising his wand, he reapplied the _Confundus_ and focused on the illusion magic.

A new face. Something nondescript. If Dumbledore had spies around even though the Savior was at Hogwarts, none of them would be able to guess his true identity.

He applied the magical anchor, linking the raw energy to his skull, then began the reshaping. As the angles smoothed out, the magic took on the shape of an ordinary human face, filling the areas where muscle didn’t exist. Next came the illusion of a different skin tone and lips, then next was the shape of the eyebrows and facial hair.

When he was done with the most grueling part, he created a hair illusion on his scalp, settling on a short style that wouldn’t be noted. By the time the taxi came to a stop, he had transfigured his clothes into that of the Muggle in the front seat.

“Your fare is thirty-six pounds, sir--”

Using these many Confounding Charms probably had a detrimental effect on Muggles, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. With another spell, he muttered out, “Keep the change,” and watched as the car drove away into the inky blackness.

\---

The winding streets of Privet Drive shined under the lamplights, casting many-headed shadows behind Lord Voldemort’s feet. The sky was darker than it was in Malfoy Manor’s solitary estate, however, and the stars didn’t show in this silent muggle settlement.

The path beneath his boots was concrete, the cars’ road asphalt. It disconcerted him to not feel cold, damp earth under his bare feet, but only momentarily. He let his presence fill the empty streets until nothing else fit, and sought a kindred sensation in this utterly mundane neighborhood. 

His search yielded no results and wasted his whole night. He either had to accept Harry Potter’s humble abode did not exist here or was under such powerful enchantments that even _he,_ the darkest wizard history had ever seen, could not find it. 

The sun’s first mocking rays killed his ghostly shadow, and Little Whinging stood witness as Lord Voldemort disappeared into thin air.

\---

Severus Snape did not go to Dumbledore’s doorstep with his suspicions, because he was not sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

As the first step, he scoured his book collection for any information on love potion variants, as well as medical texts examining numerous illnesses and maladies. 

As well as symptoms of _lovesickness_.

If the Dark Lord was the true thief who stole his potion, everyone who ever conversed with the man was in a precarious situation. Something about his master’s mannerisms seemed strange that evening, like an exaggeration that stuck out in a comparative essay. Thoughts like _the Dark Lord is never so skittish,_ filled his head, but they also seemed strange when assigned to the man. They, too, were exaggerations. 

But there was truly no other way for Severus to put his suspicions into coherent words. He felt the stirrings of a deeper work here, but he did not yet have enough evidence to go forth and say it out loud.

For all he was a potions prodigy, Severus did not have an innate ability to divine the nature of unknown potions -- just from their symptoms. If he desired to uncover this recent mystery, he needed more resources.

He was no Albus Dumbledore, but he played chess well. Lucius Malfoy’s library was the Dark Lord’s library. His gossipy house-elves were _the Dark Lord’s_ creatures. His fellow Death Eaters were the Lord’s servants, who lived under secrecy but got away with many secrets as well.

Solutions appeared only to those who looked at the right place.

\---

“Tell Greyback to control himself,” Lord Voldemort told a lowly servant, watching as the pathetic thing shook in fear. “Or he shall see _my_ control _snapped.”_

“My Lord,” Albert Bondreath said, “Greyback has -- has run away.”

_“What?”_

“Do you wish for us to retrieve him, my Lord?”

Voldemort pressed his lips tightly, leaning back into the soft cushion of his seat -- _ah,_ that soothed his nerves. Closing his eyes for a short, lingering moment, he exhaled his frustration.

“My Lord?”

“When you bring him before me,” he spoke, “I want you to curse his mouth shut. I want you to bring him _bound and gagged._ He shall lie at my feet, powerless and humiliated with his lowest-ranked pack members watching. Right after, I will make him _urinate_ like a child in his diapers, and afterward, he shall beg me for my benevolence. Only then,” he said. “Only _then,_ he may return to recruiting.”

Bondreath gaped soundlessly, stuttering out, “Yes -- my Lord? If -- If that is all you wish then we might recover him before midnight."

“See to it that you do. Failure will result in losing favor.” He looks meaningfully at the debt-ridden man, Bondreath’s throat bobbing as he gulped. “We both know you can not afford that, don’t we?”

Bondreath exited the room. Taking in a deep, yearning breath, Lord Voldemort slumped back into his chair, sinking into the smooth, bird feather filled cushion. He shifted his hips for better seating, then breathed in and out as his shoulders lowered in calm.

_Master is well,_ Nagini hissed as she wound around his ankles, holding them firmly together. _Master has healed himself. Nagini is satisfied._

_“Master is still hurting,”_ Voldemort informed her, but did not spare her a glance, imagining instead smooth black tresses and dark green eyes on the distant wall. _“But Master is searching for the cure.”_

His serpent raised her head to his face’s level, gazing soulfully into his eyes. _Master is confusing._

_“Master is confused too,”_ he said and fell silent, trying to get some shut-eye in between his meetings.

When the wards reacted to the presence of someone at the door, Voldemort was not amused. He derisively bid farewell to his momentous rest and commanded the doors to open.

“My Lord,” Lucius kneeled before him, showing him proper respect.

_For a Malfoy, he is quick to serve,_ Lord Voldemort thought before nodding sharply. “Rise, Lucius. Report.”

“Several Obliviators were assigned to Potter’s area,” Lucius continued, “They hid his address, of course, for security purposes, but they have the information we want. None of them have training in the Mind Arts, aside from their Obliviation duties. Neither is Potter’s house listed as an Unplottable.”

“How did he _hide_ it then?” he whispered to himself, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “Were we not on the right track?”

“Did you…” Lucius hesitated. “Did you already investigate the address we found, my Lord?”

“I did. I have found _nothing.”_

“The Headmaster may have spelled the wards to misdirect you, my Lord.”

Voldemort sighed and closed his eyes, holding in the acrid ache deep in his chest. He spoke, “Arrange a disappearance. Find the Obliviator assigned specifically to _him,_ bring them to the dungeons. I will take over after.”

“What shall we do after you get the information, my Lord?”

“...What do you _think,_ Lucius? You will _Obliviate_ him and make _Severus_ fabricate some new memories. Let them return to the Ministry unhindered. If the Obliviators file a missing-person report now, it might upset the status quo. Furthermore, if we send back a body, there is no telling how they will react. No.” He shook his head and with a flick of his hand, summoned his cloak. “It is for the best if we take care of this quickly, _subtly._ Within a day, if possible.”

Lucius bowed hurriedly. “Yes, of course.” His eyes told a story of fear, however, darting from the floor to him. “May I ask what you’re planning to do now, my Lord?”

“Going out,” he said, fastening the silver buckle. “I will investigate Little Whinging once more. There might be a spot I missed, in my frustration.”

“Then I wish you success, my Lord. Shall I start the operation immediately?”

“Yes. Dismissed.”

\---

The next time he visited the quaint little muggle dwelling, Voldemort apparated soundlessly onto a pavement. The hour was late, but not as late as last time. The neighborhood looked the same to his eyes, the identical houses lining up the street side to side.

He was wearing the face he had molded before. Though he wished to put the fear of _God_ into these people, he wanted to do his business without distractions. The illusion of normalcy _blinded_ these mundane fools.

Yet again, he found himself circling the routes he had followed before, contemplating his mistakes. What had he missed, that had made him lose his target and get lost?

_I had been seeking a trace of magic. Generally, wards will give off a discrete signal to wardmasters, revealing their nature to those who know how to read them. However… Do these wards secrete magic?_

_Or do they_ **_absorb_ ** _it?_

It was worth a try.

He stood stock-still as he gathered his magic around himself, the illusions flickering the more he increased his output. The power was itching beneath his command, like a beast forcing its leash and collar.

When the potency made him unable to breathe, he released the blast outward, a harmless wave that poured into the horizon of the suburb.

Lord Voldemort listened to the leftover whispers, the incoherent tunes that traced the magic back to him. Listening, _listening…_

One thread _disappeared._

_“There_ you are,” he uttered in sheer _victory._ He smiled at the direction the void of magic stood. “I have _found you.”_

\---

Number Four was a quiet, lonely house that appeared the same as every other house in this Merlin-forsaken place. It had a tidy, well-trimmed garden and an ordinary look, proving to Voldemort that this was the greatest trick Albus Dumbledore had pulled yet -- because _who_ would guess that the Savior of the Wizarding World lived in this humble abode?

He tested the boundaries of the fence line, sighing a breath of relief as his foot passed without any interference. He walked up to the door and unlocked it, slipping in unnoticed.

Though he had been expecting a more _magical_ indoors, he was disappointed yet again by the endlessly _muggle_ style. Voldemort wandered around the first floor and took in the atmosphere, the frames that commemorated Harry’s family.

_But where is he? There is no trace of him in the photos._

Doubt was niggling in the back of his head, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He stormed into the hallway, charming himself silent as he stalked up the staircase. Checking each door and each room, he found two occupied, one master bedroom and a single one, the muggles sleeping soundly in the night. There were two others, a guest room by the looks of it, and… 

The knob turned in his cold palm, the door giving way to his push. In front of him stood the most _hideous_ room he had ever seen. There was a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe -- all dull and about to come apart. At the corner was a pile of broken toys, and on the bed was a moth-eaten sheet.

Was this a punishment room? It could be. In Voldemort’s time, there were dark, mice-ridden closets and an attic, so he was woefully uninformed about recent trends in disciplining. Giving in to his curiosity, he strode into the room, observing the lonely corners and the washed-out colors. 

The room reminded him of the pages of old books, the texts faint and crumbling as the papers decayed.

He opened the wardrobe. It held a set of black clothes heaped together carelessly, covered in a fine layer of dust. He levitated them out and shook the mess off. Just as he was about to discard them, he noticed an odd detail that made him stop in his tracks.

“Are these--” He brought the clothes closer. “That is _Gryffindor’s mascot.”_

These were Harry’s school robes.

This was _Harry’s_ room.

\---

Lord Voldemort searched the house from top to bottom and found _everything_ he didn’t want to find. 

The room he had stumbled upon was, indeed, _Harry’s_ room. Voldemort found an empty birdcage that was tucked away under the bed, along with two rolls of parchment and a dried ink-well. The reality refused to register in his mind, and he went through the other rooms while he ruminated on the implications.

What _truly_ made him snap, however, was the cupboard he had ignored during his entrance.

Voldemort opened the door to the small closet under the stairs, and _shook_ in rage as he took in the sign saying, _‘Harry’s Room.’_

“That can’t be,” he chanted to himself, lunging at the cot that barely fit in the narrow space, searching for something that would make this all go away. _“It can’t be.”_

Finding a handful of toy soldiers, a thin storybook, and a few lined notebooks, he could not bear his fury anymore -- Lord Voldemort blasted the door off its hinges and exploded the cupboard.

Then all of a sudden, it was chaos.

“Vernon!” a woman screamed from upstairs. Harsh stomps echoed down the corridor and approached quickly. Simultaneously, the fire alarm sounded and the shrill sound awoke the whole household.

It was then that Lord Voldemort felt the threatening sharpness of the wards, congealing around him in an attempt to run him into a corner. He laughed in its face, bitterly and _aching,_ and disapparated without a trace.

\---

When he reappeared and his feet hit soft earth, he fell to his knees and shook in conflicting emotions, regurgitating every single _feeling_ that infected his sick mind.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a blurry figure run toward him but concentrating pained him and his eyes burnt with the sawdust.

“My Lord!” shouted Lucius’ wife, kneeling by his side. As she placed her hand gingerly on his back, he felt a sudden nausea deep in his abdomen. He heaved into the mud and the contents of his stomach streamed out, mud-grey and thick and curdled.

“Potion,” he spoke, shivering. Voldemort took her hand in his, gripping it desperately. “Let me…”

“My Lord, you need a Calming Draught, I’ll call the house elf--”

“No,” he cut in. _“Not that one._ I need -- I need the _love potion.”_

Narcissa drew back. _“Love potion?”_

“Call -- Call Nagini. I need her. _Bring her here.”_

Though Narcissa was a dedicated and capable Healer, she knew to obey his orders. He lay shuddering in the cold forest air, inhaling and exhaling to keep the churning at bay. Feverish heat and the chill made his stomach contract in revulsion, for he wasn’t sure he could wait until Narcissa returned.

When he felt Nagini’s presence at the edge of his consciousness, he nearly wept from the relief of it, widening his stance to let her into his embrace.

_Master,_ she spoke.

_“Master is hurt,”_ he told her, holding her by the root of her head. _“Master needs you to bring him his potion.”_

_I don’t know which you need._

_“You will,”_ he said, and let himself be pulled into her mind. They melded together and became one soul, so then he could see through her eyes and feel the vibrations in the empty air.

_In the study room. In the warded drawer, there are vials of potions smelling of heat and mice. Swallow the vials. I will guide you._

For what felt like hours, he led Nagini to the room and into the cursed drawer, coaxing her to gulp down a bright, warm bottle. When she returned to him, he felt worn-down to his bones, and all he wished for was a restful sleep. Narcissa took vigil by his side, watching warily as the snake disgorged the dose of Amortentia.

_“You did wonderfully,”_ he praised her as he uncorked the vial, chugging down the taste of glossy papers and crackling fire. Narcissa watched from the sidelines, worried for him -- though she didn’t need to be.

He was going to be fine.

_More than_ fine.

As feeling and peace returned to him, he found the strength to sit up and breathe calmly, feeling present and grounded in his body. 

“My Lord,” Narcissa spoke out. He tilted his head downward, feeling foolish now that he was recovered. “I… Can I serve you in any way? Would you like my aid?”

“I don’t need _aid,”_ Voldemort refused, standing up abruptly and feeling faint. He walked in a straight path, however, and left the woman behind in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I hope you enjoyed this installment as much as you did the previous ones. I did my best!
> 
> I had an outline at the beginning, but surprisingly (or not) the story ran away from me and mutated into something I didn't expect. This is good though! I'm having the time of my life :D Maybe after finishing this, I'll apply the weekly update schedule to my other works as well.


	4. Audentes fortuna iuvat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fortune favors the bold._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delayed chapter!

The door opened.

“Severus,” Lucius said, somewhat surprised. “How… _unexpectedly_ friendly of you. Do come in. Were you planning to ambush me?”

“I was promised a drink. I thought Lord Malfoy kept his promises.”

“And he will,” Lucius agreed, levitating his paperwork into the drawer. Snapping his fingers, he called, “Minty.”

An elf appeared. While Lucius ordered their drinks, Severus took the opportunity to examine the few stray documents on the desk. Reports on accidental magic, some official request forms for Hogwarts records, and an essay on the Wizarding Britain’s economy.

“Did you write this?” he asked his friend, knowing he did not.

Lucius hummed questioningly, turning to Severus. As his eyes fell on the mentioned paper, he spoke, “Oh. No, that’s our Lord’s work. He gave this to me some weeks ago. I was looking over it -- I think I could publish this under my name, if _he_ lets me.”

“I think you should let it simmer for a while,” Severus advised, pushing the paper away in favor of the firewhiskey Lucius offered. “This type of endeavor deserves some more consideration. The public is tense -- if you publish this now, it could backfire.”

“How astute.” Lucius took a drawn-out, savoring sip. “But enough work talk. I want you here for the idle chatter, not the serious one.”

“How pleased am I to serve,” he responded dryly, making the man laugh in boisterous beats.

They talked into late hours about Lucius’ home life, his wife’s new social gatherings, and Draco’s task -- which was a given, seeing as Severus had vowed to take care of it for his godson, provided that the boy failed to achieve his objective.

“He has been having trouble,” Lucius spoke as though Severus was pulling his teeth out. “I’m afraid the stress is getting to him. If this continues, he will do something drastic and drive himself into a corner.”

“Draco doesn’t handle pressure well,” he agreed, another mouthful rolling over his taste buds. He had never liked the burn of firewhiskey. “What would you have me do, in case he is in danger?”

“Protect him _at all costs,_ Severus,” Lucius said fervently. Putting his glass on the table, he continued, “You are my friend first and foremost, but you are also his godfather. If something happens to him, it will devastate me -- but moreover, it will devastate _Cissy._ She can’t handle seeing him like this.”

“I will do my best.”

The door to the study opened and both their heads snapped to see the newcomer.

“Lucius,” Narcissa chided. “It’s past midnight.”

“My love, midnight is but a name. Why don’t you come in?”

Severus was amused to note that though Narcissa loved her husband with a vicious elegance, she also spoiled him rotten, as she was wont to do. Blacks and their _fanatical devotion,_ he swore.

Narcissa joined their nightcap and supped her drink daintily, setting a great contrast to Lucius’ deep, relishing gulps. Severus watched as the two bickered each other into standstill. From the corner of his eyes, he caught Narcissa’s mischievous wink and snorted.

She would most likely bicker Lucius into sleep.

And his prediction came true. As Lucius’ snores echoed between the study’s walls, Narcissa conjured a blanket over the man’s prone form draped over the seat.

“I love him dearly,” she sighed, settling into the seat opposite Severus. “But he can be a right child regarding rules.”

“He has always been this way,” Severus told her, the wine glass in his hand still half-full. He put it back on the table. “I seem to have overstayed my welcome.”

“Not at all,” Narcissa refuted him. “Let’s have a talk, just the two of us. I know you haven’t come seeking easy company.”

“...There _is_ truth in that,” Severus admitted. “I came looking for signs.”

“Signs are mysterious figures,” she said. “We look at them and see bookmarks from our memories. What signs have you been enamoured by?”

“Signs of dangerous inclinations. If I am right, Merlin have mercy on us.”

“Signs are only signs. If something has happened, the signs are only the hallmarks of what has _already_ happened. There is nothing we can do to change the past, unfortunately.”

Severus scowls and leans in. “I have suspicions about the Dark Lord’s recent behavior.”

Narcissa, copying him, mirrored his posture. “Tell me of your signs.”

“Dilated pupils. I wouldn’t have noticed on an ordinary person, but since our Lord’s eyes are--”

“Unusual. It must have stood out to you.”

“Precisely. Tactile, tension packed in the upper torso, increased fidgeting, unprompted leniency in punishments as I’ve heard -- and if I’m correct, sensitivity to touch. And if I am correct _furthermore..._ ”

He paused and gathered his wits. “He is the one who stole my cauldron of Amortentia.”

Narcissa clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes narrowed. _“Oh.”_

“Do you have any evidence of my suspicions? Some more signs?”

“I have more than _signs,”_ she said. “I have witnessed our Lord drinking it.”

Severus felt himself freeze by this unexpected information, taking the wine glass again purely for the distraction. A gulp later, he found the courage to continue. “Surprising, I hadn’t thought I would have had my… unfortunate ideas confirmed tonight.”

“Can you help him?”

“What?”

Narcissa stared at him with intelligent eyes, a knowing look. Severus shook his head.

“I don’t know what ails him,” he told her. “He is showing symptoms of lovesickness, but that never happens before the fifth day of consumption. I saw it after the _first day._ He couldn’t have stolen it before I _made_ it, after all.”

“Couldn’t he have made it himself?”

“He had no reason to. I figure he stole it not because he was running out, which would not have worked, but because he was… I’m not sure. I do not know the workings of that man. I was planning on pleading for Dumbledore’s aid, but--”

“But that’s treason,” Narcissa summed up easily. “I understand your predicament. Do you think this is harmful to him? To you? Anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Severus said, shaking his head in helplessness. “I don’t have enough information. I can’t ask it either.”

“Let me take care of that for you, then.”

“But…” Narcissa would have to bear the weight of the Dark Lord’s regard _alone._ “Will you be alright?”

“How caring of you, Severus,” she laughed. “You were always the soft-heart of our group. Let me deal with that myself. Who do you think taught Draco, a five-year-old, the basics of Occlumency?”

\----

Peter returned from his excursion with another armful of Witch Weekly issues, this time from last month’s and this week’s. The Dark Lord had finally caught up to the current gossip and was requiring less and less from him.

“The desk,” the Lord hissed, not even raising his head from a clipping from the magazine. Peter obeyed the order immediately and put the stack onto the only free space on the table.

The whole surface was covered by various issues marked on seemingly random pages, a heap of cut-out pictures from various magazines including the ones Peter had been delivering, and some Ministry documents the likes of which he had seen on Malfoy’s desk before.

“Ah,” he stuttered out, shying away from the Dark Lord’s sudden, burning gaze. “If -- If I may ask, my Lord, just one question?”

“...Ask.”

He swallowed and continued, trying to temper his voice, “Why -- Why are you collecting these magazines, my Lord? I -- I mean no disrespect, of course--”

“It’s a hobby.”

... _What?_

\----

_If God exists,_ Voldemort wished with hellish shame wringing him from skin to flesh, _let me disappear from the face of Earth and kill this worm._

An awkward, unsure silence filled the gaps between him and his servant, the stocky man’s uncertainty so thick in the air that Voldemort could feel it come tangible.

“...Open your mouth.”

“Y-Yes, my Lord.”

For once, Wormtail clearly consented to the use of the Curse of Silence, which only embarrassed Voldemort more. As the magic bound his servant, Voldemort dismissed him with a flick of his hand, expression tightly contained.

_Thank Merlin it’s over now,_ he thought to himself. _Perhaps from now on I’ll get the magazines by myself. Yes, that sounds better._

Back on track, he flipped open the cover and skimmed the index.

_Five Ways To Propose To Your Sweetheart!...........................13pg_

_Ceiling High! The Phenomena of Bubbly Feelings……………15pg_

_This Week’s Hogwarts Dates To Hogsmeade…………………18pg_

There it was.

So Lord Voldemort sat, reading the Witch Weekly like a pubescent, lovesick schoolgirl -- had he seen himself from the outside, he probably would have cursed the door shut and adopted an eternal hermit lifestyle. As it stood, however, he was quite enamoured by the few brief passages containing Harry Potter’s relationship status.

_Our informants at Hogwarts report that Harry Potter is still free for the Hogsmeade weekend! Not surprising, knowing our Chosen One’s tendency to visit the village with his friends, but new information has surfaced -- we have uncovered that a fifth-year girl from Gryffindor is planning on asking him out! Our informants tell us that she looks exceptionally confident, unusually so, considering Potter’s notorious refusal record. Is there something more sinister beneath this feisty romance story?_

Voldemort discarded the parts he didn’t care for, eyes scanning the words _Harry Potter, Hogsmeade,_ and _free_ again and again. His heart beat without his directive, his eyes burnt the ink with their intensity and he put the magazine away.

No. This was absurd. He couldn’t _go to Hogsmeade._

_Only a glimpse. I miss his lovely eyes, the headstrong gleam in those eyes--_

No. This wasn’t doable. One step into the village and he would be ambushed by the authorities. 

His feet tapped the marble floor, disregarding his rational mind. He was blatantly fidgeting, but he couldn’t contain the frustration bubbling through his belly. 

This wasn’t something within his _abilities._ If Lord Voldemort walked into Hogsmeade donning his disguise, he would still be found by the Aurors’ specialized wards, surrounded and busted.

_But his_ **_eyes,_ ** _the wind through his black hair--_

The flush around his neck wasn’t diminishing.

...Well, he could bury down his magical presence for _five seconds_ at least. That was plenty time to gaze to his heart’s content.

\----

Though Harry knew he had lots to do back at Hogwarts, he actually _did_ miss spending more time with his friends. With the threat of Voldemort’s return, Dumbledore’s lessons, chasing Malfoy through the castle, and being the Quidditch captain, his schedule was packed full. He would have added homework in the list, but he was honestly used to the workload now.

“It’s been a while since we all came to Hogsmeade,” Hermione mentioned, passing through the gates. “I need to go to Tomes and Scrolls though. Will you two be at the Three Broomsticks?”

“You got it,” Ron said. “We’ll just be drinking Butterbeer and talking Quidditch. You take your time.”

“I swear,” she sighed and left them behind, striding into the depths of the village.

“Come on, mate,” Ron nudged Harry. They walked side-by-side to the pub.

It was crowded as always, but less so than it would have been during the holidays. Harry found them a spot by the windows and ordered their drinks.

“Is it me or does Rosmerta look a bit…” Ron frowned and shrugged. “ _Weird?”_

“Sorry, I didn’t see.”

“Oh, well. Doesn’t matter, I s’pose. So, about that new move you wanted us to practice--”

While Ron ranted about the move, however, Harry found his thoughts drifting to Sirius’ newest letter, telling him to give up tailing Malfoy. He felt like his godfather had had a _one-hundred-and-eighty_ since the incident in the Ministry last year, having nearly lost his life. Harry wanted to get mad, but he knew Sirius too much to feel anger at his new stance.

“You are distracted, aren’t you?” Ron asked. Harry went to deny it, but his friend waved a hand. “No, it’s alright. I’ve been distracted too. We can just relax and…” He swallowed a mouthful of his beer. “Drink, you know.”

Harry smiled in response. “Thanks. I just -- I’ve been thinking about Sirius’ letter.”

“Oh. That. He’s still saying no?” 

“Unfortunately.”

“Pity, we could have had another brain with us. I don’t think Malfoy’s up to anything much, but I’ll help if you need me to.” He hits Harry’s shoulder playfully. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah. I’m glad you’re by my side, Ron.”

Someone’s arm bumped into his shoulder, but Harry ignored it. They were near the bathrooms, after all, and he focused back on the conversation.

“I think he is doing something illegal,” he told Ron. “He was browsing through Borgin’s goods with that shady way he does, and I have this _really_ bad feeling that it’s something important.”

“I said it once and I’ll say it again: Malfoy visits that crackpot’s store every summer. His father was nearly convicted for being a Death Eater -- though how he had the antidote to Veritaserum I have no idea, but believe me when I say they can’t try anything shifty right now. That would just hurt them in the long run.”

“In the _long run,”_ Harry emphasized, “Voldemort’s followers will have _won,_ and then they won’t have any need for the public opinion anyway!”

“They can’t do that overnight,” his friend pointed out.

“Yeah, but Malfoy can _work_ towards it, right in the castle. Why do you think I’ve been looking for him on the map?”

The same arm bumped into him again, and he was about to tell them to watch it, except he saw the girl’s face and froze.

“Katie?” he intoned, watching as she strode without reaction, eyes glassy. “Ron, come on, we have to go--”

“What?”

“Something’s up with her--”

Ron gulped down his Butterbeer and they followed her out of the pub, walking some feet behind to see where she was going. After some minutes, Katie met another girl and was pulled into an alley.

“Merlin’s balls,” Ron swore. “You go after her and I’ll wait for them to come out. Cool?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, darting after them without hesitation. However, after five minutes of looking for the girls, he understood that he had lost them. So he stood where he was, looking around and flitting between ideas of where they could have gone.

Rubbing his arms, he suddenly felt the cold and darkness of the empty path, the fences and the trash bins only exacerbating the feeling of wrongness. 

Something was here.

Harry hummed, pressing his lips together. He was trying to distract himself from the sensation of eyes on him, but the feeling only intensified. 

“Anyone there?” he asked into the silent air. “Hello? Katie?”

The response never came. He was about to turn around and walk back, when he came face to face with a figure in the shadows.

Shrouded in darkness, they were tall and thin, standing unnaturally still in the silence of the snowfall. Their face was turned towards him, but despite _knowing_ that those eyes were staring into his, he could not see them.

Harry was as still as the figure watching him, though his heart was beating hard enough to put a dent in his rib-cage. He didn’t dare swallow or blink, feeling that if he did, he would be in the watcher’s mercy -- like a childhood boogeyman, but infinitely more _real_.

“Harry!”

Reflexively, Harry turned around to look at the voice, but when he looked back the figure in the shadows was gone.

“Harry,” Ron spoke, panting from running. “I found them! They were behind Madam Puddifoot’s, I think they’re headed to the gates! Come on!”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, shaking his head clear of the incident. Was it a hallucination? “Yeah, lead the way!”

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter (which was supposed to be published now instead of this) will be here before next week! I'm determined to stick to the plan >:3
> 
> This chapter: Therapy à la Narcissa in Hannibal façade. The entire scene was inspired by Hannibal :elmo:


	5. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I will either find a way or make one._
> 
> _\- Hannibal of Carthage_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quarantine and stay safe, everyone! Wash your hands! :D

Severus had never enjoyed brewing Amortentia. The smell reminded him of lost opportunities, carefree times, and the first buds of love, born from the glide of a daisy in the air. He had always loathed the scent deep down in his bones, for it was an illusion masking the potion’s sinister intentions.

Amortentia was _sickness_.

Severus would know better than anyone else. There was a reason the potion swirled _void black_ before turning into its distinctive _mother-of-pearl_ sheen. 

Love was not supposed to be all-consuming. Obsession was not meant to prosper, for its growth would be the oppression of someone else. With drinking it, the Dark Lord had tasted the sweetness of it, but he had not understood its deeper connotations.

Love was not supposed to burn. It wasn’t supposed to hurt. Amortentia did _both._

While he was at his cauldron’s side, however, Severus was reminded of his business, the essays he had to grade, and the potions he was assigned to brew. His responsibilities made for busy days and even busier nights, but he was glad for the fullness of it.

It distracted him from graver matters. Severus did not want to think about the darkest wizard of all time feeling _love._ He was certain that the man had never felt the emotion before, which only worsened his headache -- they were in for some difficult days, Narcissa and him.

“Dust of dragon’s claw, sage char, one anti-clockwise stir,” he counted the steps ahead, checking the color. A bit too runny. Some Flobberworm mucus should take care of it. He still had yet to receive the shipment of citrines, but if he adjusted the recipe, amethysts would do. 

Narcissa. Her compliance had taken him by surprise, but it shouldn’t have. Narcissa had always been an exemplary Slytherin, yet her strength had been in her sincerity. Severus had no doubt at all that she would be able to gather the information he needed.

Though his fears were confirmed, Severus wondered how the potion affected the Dark Lord _precisely_ . He had assumed that he had used it and fallen in love with someone as a result, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed unlikely. How was it that he had managed to key _someone else’s magic_ to the potion? It wasn’t impossible, but the chances were low. 

What had the Dark Lord done then? Had he drunk the potion unkeyed? The last time they met, he had not been exhibiting the overly narcissistic behavior seen in people in his situation. How much of the anomalies were his unnatural, serpentine body? Had Severus been mistaken about the potion’s state?

_No,_ he thought to himself, frowning. _No, but he had been very affectionate with his snake…_

Oh.

“Merlin’s _damned_ beard,” he muttered, staring at the potion’s bubbling surface with his eyes wide. “Has he fallen in love with his _snake?”_

That… Actually, that was the most credible theory he had at the moment. He wished _dearly_ that it wasn’t so, but some part of him was afraid that the truth was _even worse_ \-- on second thought, the Dark Lord in love with his familiar was much easier to digest.

He sighed and glanced at a timer. The next step for the potion still had at least four hours, so the least he could do was to start grading his students’ atrocious essays.

And _atrocious_ they were. Severus had never thought teaching Potions would be preferable to being the Defense Against Dark Arts professor, but he was certainly thinking it now. 

_That’s why the jinx is a much better alternative to it’s dark curse version because the dark curse is illegal, hurts too much, and is very obscure so the counter curse is very hard to find. (I haven’t found it.)_

Dear Merlin, Severus was _so_ ready to retire.

He mercilessly slashed down the mistakes with red ink and thought better of writing down, _Perhaps you ought to consider dropping the class._ Who knew, maybe Dumbledore would finally decide to fire him.

He was never grading first-year essays again. Severus set the stack aside and decided to rope some poor, irresponsible, rule breaking upper-year into grading them for him. That would provide him some amusement while he struggled with his workload.

Once again, he found his mind wandering to darker waters. What was he supposed to tell Dumbledore? _Was_ he supposed to tell him? The Dark Lord falling in love was already an outstandingly devastating event, but his suspicions had not yet given way to the truth. 

Perhaps some more waiting would be wise.

\---

_Soft, velvet fabric. He is staring at the ceiling, a gentle whiteness._

_When he straightens up, his feet hit viscous fluid. The room is filling up with dark blue, black, it is viscous and stains him, forever on his feet up to his ankles. Harry inhales sharply and takes them out, sitting in a fetal position on the chaise lounge. The fabric is softer now._

_Black drips onto his head._

_He looks up. The black sea drips onto his forehead, leaking down and crossing on the bridge of his nose. The dark blue, the black has him below his neck now. His torso is caught in its thick coils._

_His head submerges._

_Harry stands alone, kneeling in front of a rose garden. The sky is silver, but it is nighttime. The garden is darkened. The roses hide him underneath the trees, the branches crystal and brittle. His eyes stray to the luminescent, white-out moon hanging above him, its light brighter than the sun yet it’s still night. It has always been night in this garden. Intuition makes him tense._

_Something is chasing him._

_Harry crouches frozen, for he knows if he moves, it will touch him. He can’t let it. Around him, the roses seem smaller and smaller. Time is running out._

_He sprints to the other end of the garden. It’s strange, but he can’t run -- his legs move, his feet hit the earth path, but he is slow. He isn’t moving._

_It is closer now._

_Through sheer power of will, he pulls through, entering the door and locking it behind him. He has no doubt that the pursuer will follow him with or without the lock, but it’s all he can do. He runs up the stairs._

_When he stops, Harry is in a white expanse of space. He glances above._

_It looks like it will rain._

_“Can’t run, can’t hide,” the thing following him says, and Harry swivels around. It has the outline of a human, two black holes for eyes watching his soul, but nothing else._

_The eyes -- the dark holes boring into him. The mouth that opens long and narrow and is empty._

_It will eat him whether he lets it or not._

_“No can do.”_

Harry woke up with a gasp, his eyes snapping open, and he jumped out of the bed with his heart pumping fearfully.

_Merlin._ He ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair, the droplets running down his temples. He was weak in the knees, barely able to stand straight. _Merlin,_ he thought again.

Falling back on the bed, he hunched his back and raised his shoulders inward, his breaths deep and slow. He had thought that he was over that hallucination when he went to sleep last night, but apparently it had made an impression.

“Harry?” he heard Ron mumble as he got up, pulling his duvets back. “Mate, _what?”_

“Go back to sleep,” he told him, chest still quaking with the beat of his heart. “It was nothing. Just a dream.”

“Oh, _bloody hell.”_ Ron groaned. “Alright. Good night.”

“Jesus, will you two just _sleep?”_ Seamus said from the other side of the room. A pillow was thrown in their direction. “For once?”

“Sorry.”

As he lay down on the damp, cold sheets, Harry tried to remember his dream. He didn’t remember the start of it, but he certainly remembered the last moments.

_Can’t run._

A shudder. He shifted his position and lay on his side, arm under pillow. Harry felt a whole lot calmer than he was during that nightmare, but he still felt a thrill of trepidation deep inside. He hadn’t been creeped out by a dream since _years --_ what was to say it wouldn’t come back?

So he tried not to let his eyes fall closed, and merely listened to his own breaths, feeling small and singular in the darkness of the dormitory.

\---

Lord Voldemort awakened with a drowning gasp, a gulp of air that suffocated him and contracted his lungs abruptly. A cramp traveled throughout his body, and he spasmed in panic and confusion as he found himself unable to make sudden movements.

_Master, what is wrong?_

He tried to reply, but his tongue was stuck to his palate. Instead, he lifted the blanket with trembling muscles, a weak grasp, and Nagini slid inside to snuggle against him.

_Does Master need his potion?_

He couldn’t answer, so he just brought her closer to his chest, her head snaking around his neck, settling on his nape in gentle pressure. Though his vision was normally perfect, his sight was going fuzzy around the edges.

_Master is sick again,_ Nagini hissed behind his ear, her tongue brushing his thin skin. He shivered with goosebumps and nausea. _I will bring the potion to Master._

Voldemort managed to shake his head, confident that Nagini knew the meaning of the motion. In response, she wound looser around his torso, letting air travel inside easier. Suddenly overcome by his affection for her, in a manner in which he hasn’t been for years, he planted a ghost of a kiss on her scales.

_I love you, Master,_ Nagini said. Voldemort could feel the tresses of calm, languishing happiness within her.

And _for once,_ he could feel the answer in his soul.

_‘I love you too.’_

_\---_

A week passed by. Lord Voldemort days were spent in a daze of love, delirious research, and the incessant need to know _everything_ about Harry Potter. When Witch Weekly stopped satisfying him, he threw it aside and became a man of documents, spending his days locked inside his office with Lucius’ reports and Harry’s photographs.

Nowadays, he felt as though he was a different soul inside. Something _more than love_ had bloomed alongside, and he didn’t know what it was -- only that it was something foreign that hadn’t existed before. In between reading, Voldemort found himself with his hand tracing his collarbone, mind kilometers away at the distant castle. Whenever he came to his senses, he would startle and pull his hand back viciously, returning to his meticulous research with the devotion of a believer.

His shelves had also been filled with references on love potions, healing manuals, and grimoires from lineages with potioneers. He suspected that something was remiss with himself, knowing that he had always been extraordinary, because he had not managed to unearth anything resembling his situation. Why had he fallen for _Harry Potter,_ of all people?

Once the question struck his mind, he had thought about it. Potter was not someone he would have thought about in a romantic context -- not in a million years. If anything, he had always been on his mind as a petulant, rebellious little child, seeking to bury seeds of chaos everywhere he touched. That streak of daring had impressed him once, for he favored the bold, but he could not stand impertinence the likes of Potter employed.

How had this come to be, then? Did that rudeness also impress him now? Did he, perhaps, find that rebellion _endearing?_ Harry Potter was truly a unique boy, the deflection of the Killing Curse notwithstanding. Voldemort decided that if the potion had not nudged him in that direction, he would not have thought to fall in love with his enemy -- but it had. 

He was in love. For the time being.

Lord Voldemort was in love with everything that made Harry Potter, _Harry Potter._ The whole of his being -- the ugly, the furious, the commonplace -- seemed inexplicably enticing to his heart, though his mind could not comprehend the attraction. He wished to know him down to his bones; to the boiling, angry marrow of his bones… 

He had not yet found the reason the potion had chosen _him,_ however. He wondered if it was related to his resurrected body, crafted by the very blood Harry Potter had given him. 

_If that had been so, I would have fallen for my wretched father and Wormtail as well,_ he realized, grimacing. _The thought of it sickens me._

But the thought of Harry didn’t, not at all. He wondered if he had been desensitized to the information now, ever since that first time he was wrenched back to reality. To be frank, he didn’t mind -- this was preferable to that dark, murky silence of emotions.

Voldemort read the passages, but he did not register them. His eyes passed over the words and the letters became blurs of grey, and he pushed the stack away from him. He hadn’t been truly focusing anyway.

There was no real information in the reports. None that he didn’t already know. He knew Harry’s address -- though, if he guessed, he would not be able to enter it anymore from his murderous rage at the Muggles -- his favorite somethings -- which seemed important to youngsters? -- and his love life. His very… _lucrative_ \-- _no,_ that made it sound as if Harry had made _children_ with his girlfriends, which was _not true at all._ Lord Voldemort shivered a bit with revulsion.

Back on the topic -- he needed a more personal, closer approach. Lucius’ contacts within the Ministry were no help. Investigating by himself was not doable. And for now, his only contact _in_ Hogwarts was… 

_No,_ he thought and cradled his arms with each hand, trying to repress the smatterings of _fear._ He could not. He trusted Severus, but he could not trust him to _not_ go to Dumbledore with this information.

Dumbledore would think he _won._

Voldemort _despised_ the thought. He hated the image his mind created -- _the old man, with his silver beard, his eyes smug and_ **_victorious_ ** _as he heard the news of his enemy brought down low by_ **_love_ ** _\--_

But Harry was within his reach. Voldemort _wanted_ to reach him, through whatever means he could think of. He wanted to hear his voice, to see the sight of him, to feel the texture of his hair. As his fingers tapped along his collarbone once again, he found courage within fear, within infatuation.

If he bound Severus by the _Vow of Silence,_ perhaps he would understand the importance of the matter? Or perhaps… What if he did not tell Severus the truth _at all?_

\---

Severus apparated to Malfoy Manor with a thumping burn on his arm. The tempo of the summoning was disciplined, like the beat of a song he remembered from his youth. 

He had never felt such a discrete, demanding calling before.

That was why, as he knocked the door, Severus was wound tight with caution, eyes clear and his concentration pointed like an arrow. The Dark Lord welcomed him to his study, and he sat on a seat as directed by the man.

“Severus,” he was greeted. He nodded respectfully. “I have called you here for an urgent, sensitive matter. None of what I tell you will leave this room -- is that clear?”

“As crystal,” Severus responded, though he hated the metaphor. Pet peeves came after survival.

The Dark Lord nodded. He pushed a stack of Ministry documents toward Severus -- who realized that they were similar to those he had seen on Lucius’ desk. 

“I have been requesting reports left and right,” the Dark Lord said, chuckling dangerously. “Lucius was quite tired of the work. I decided to let you into the mission, Severus.”

“I live to serve, my Lord,” Severus replied dutifully. “However, if I may ask, what does this mission consist of?”

_“That_ is the more difficult part of the problem -- you see, I have been reading Harry Potter’s file.”

At the mention of the name, Severus’ heart gave an unpleasant jolt, stabbed by fear. “Harry Potter, my Lord?”

“Yes,” the man said nonchalantly, “I have already learnt the address of his Muggle residence--” Severus was almost ready to have a _stroke._ “--and I have the entirety of his legal existence in my drawers. The problem is that _I do not have personal information.”_

The Potions professor sat silent for a few moments, repeating, _“...Personal information,_ my Lord?”

The Dark Lord glared condescendingly at him. Severus flinched slightly. “What is he like when you talk to him? What makes him _tick?_ What does he _love?_ What makes him drop everything for it? I have no need for dry bits of knowledge. I need _his character._ I need to know how to _bend him,_ Severus.” He cocked a non-existent eyebrow. “Surely you understand now? Have I explained to your _satisfaction?”_

“I understand completely, my Lord,” Severus said, bowing his head in deference, heart beating against the bones in his chest. “I shall do my best and bring you what you desire.”

“Do not fail.”

Severus bowed his head once more, and strode out of the room. 

Had he looked back, perhaps he would have seen the elated expression on the Dark Lord’s face, and been horrified at the potential implications. Alas, _he did not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! I feel great now that I have an update schedule. I was lucky -- I actually wrote all this TODAY. What are the odds? :P


	6. Absit omen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Let this not be an omen._

Severus was flummoxed.

As was the deal with all days adhering to the routine, he attended his classes and lectured his students’ impressionable minds about the Dark Arts and their advantages. During that time, he also had ample time to observe the Boy Who Lived…  _ Person of interest. _

Though he still had a  _ burning  _ animosity for the teenager, he did not let even a wisp of it escape the confines of his control, lest he contaminates the grounds of experimentation.

_ The Savior’s character,  _ he wondered to himself, glancing at the boy in question.  _ How idiotic. The Dark Lord is wasting his time with an insolent, weak child who cannot sit still and think. _

“You reckon Hermione has an encyclopedia hidden somewhere?” Weasley whispered to Potter, nudging him with an elbow. “I thought she was going to  _ help  _ us.”

Potter sighed exasperatedly and looked up at the high ceiling in prayer for patience, from the looks of it. “Ron, she already told you that she left the book at home. That’s what she was talking about at dinner last night --  _ she wasn’t talking about giving it to us.” _

_ “Really?” _

“Mr. Weasley,” Severus drawled, taking great pleasure in the boy’s indignant flush. “Is everything acceptable?  _ Can I get you anything?  _ Perhaps you would enjoy a  _ Butterbeer  _ with your conversation.”

The Slytherins snickered at the redhead’s unfortunate situation and Weasley shot them a furious look. Severus tapped the blackboard with his wand,  _ once, twice, thrice. _

“If Mr. Weasley has finished, that means most of you must have also.” He let his gaze fall on every student in the room, taking in their meek, proud, scared, daring, outraged expressions. “Let’s see how well you know curses. Quills down. Bring your test to my desk.”

“Sir, we have ten minutes until recess,” Dean Thomas dared to announce, but shrunk back when he turned his sneering face to him.

“I am well aware,” Severus said. “That is why you shall sit tight and  _ read  _ because Merlin knows most of you have never cracked open a book in your lives -- which means you  _ sorely  _ need it. Now… Anyone slow enough to  _ forget  _ to hand your tests in, I shall give you a spectacular  _ Troll  _ for your grade.”

The students clambered off their desks and raised a commotion while they slid the papers into the dossier, some more  _ unrefined  _ Gryffindors and Slytherins elbowing each other quite hard. Severus eyed each of them critically while they showed off their grace and clumsiness, leaning toward the latter.

“Potter,” he acknowledged as the Gryffindor put his test on top of the others. “Do make sure to keep your  _ weasel  _ in line. I do not tolerate cheating in my class.”

Potter's face hardened for a moment, lips pressing tight as he watched him with hateful eyes. “Then you really  _ must  _ leash your  _ bat,  _ sir. It’s bringing down the morale. It’s a wonder anyone can get an  _ Acceptable  _ in this room.”

Severus raised an eyebrow and waited, letting Potter fume without any release of tension. “...How disappointing. I had thought that you would have defended your  _ friend  _ more fiercely.”

“Well, make up your mind,  _ sir.” _

“Detention. On Friday.” he quipped, rather pleased that it had worked. “And another  _ Troll  _ to add to your grade. My, you are becoming  _ quite  _ the beast-handler, Potter. At this rate, we will have you roaring at giants and dragons soon.”

“Thanks for  _ nothing, sir,”  _ Potter snarled and took his test back, stomping back to his seat through watchful eyes and immature snickering.

_ Belligerent, impudent, self-righteous boy,  _ Severus counted the insults in his mind.  _ Does the Dark Lord want me to find his weaknesses? Truly? I doubt that this stupid boy has any at all. There is no need to go so far as to learn what he  _ **_loves._ **

***

“Are you telling me that he despises being criticized?” the Dark Lord asked, watching Severus as critically as the professor had watched his students. “Severus, tell me this honestly.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Are you an  _ imbecile?” _

Severus stood frozen, mouth parted open in shock as the Dark Lord leveled him with a glare that rivaled those he gave his enemies.

“I,” he stammered, trying to come up with an answer. “I -- He was exceptionally impertinent, my Lord--”

“I did not ask for an explanation. I asked you a question.”

“...I do not believe I am, my Lord. What have I done wrong?”

The man stared at him in disbelief, which made for an incredibly disturbing and alien expression on his serpentine face. “I have trouble believing that. Let me enlighten you,  _ Severus --  _ when people are faced with criticism, they usually react poorly. Are you so idiotic as to ignore that fact?”

“I apologize, my Lord,” Severus pleaded as he bowed his head. “I shall come to you with more useful information next time.”

“No,” the Dark Lord said as he shook his head. “You shall not filter anything you observe. I want  _ every  _ conclusion you come to, every  _ fact  _ that you know  _ for sure  _ is the truth. If you leave out  _ even one bit,  _ I will have to punish you as harshly as I punish my treacherous servants.”

Severus was still shocked as the Dark Lord briefed him on what to look out for, how to recognize if a person is being goaded, how to determine a person’s interests. He was surprised by the depth of knowledge the Lord displayed on the nature of people and took some mental notes while still reeling over the fact that  _ the Dark Lord was teaching him people-analyzing.  _ The sheer  _ absurdity _ .

“If I hear another ignorant word out of your mouth, I will have you thrown into the dungeons, Severus. You  _ better  _ remember the reason for your mission. It  _ would _ , perhaps, do you some good to know that your task does not have a set schedule.”

“I will do my best, my Lord.”

***

“We will be grading essays. A novelty for you, I believe,” Severus told Potter, making him sit close to the desk so that he could reach the papers. Potter immediately went for the sixth-year essays.  _ “No,  _ Potter. You won’t be touching the essays you are  _ being graded on.  _ Merlin knows you would probably just give all those irresponsible brats  _ Outstandings  _ without considering their intelligence at all. Instead, you will be grading the first-year essays -- I have had my hands full for a while now, and I am  _ very pleased  _ that I have someone to take them off my plate.”

“I’m not,” Potter muttered. Severus held in the urge to discipline him.

“Have you ever graded essays, Potter?”

“Not really.” Seeing Severus’ stern look, he added, “Sir.”

“Then we will start with the rubric. Open the drawer closest to you, the one at the top. Written on that parchment are the categories in which the student shall be given points. If the accumulated points surpass a certain number, you will assign them the grade the number corresponds to. Is that clear?”

“As crystal,” Potter said, hurryingly adding, “sir.”

Severus sighed and sat on his seat, starting his work right away. Nearby, Potter scrawled in red ink on the essays, the sounds of  _ swish and flick  _ and the scratches on the papers setting a background ambiance while both worked. 

When Severus watched Potter, occasionally, he saw that the teenager would often glance at the rubric and narrow his eyes, as if reading the guide seriously. He was a bit taken aback by the diligence Potter showed but did not let it distract him from reality.

As he came to the halfway mark through his stack of sixth-year essays, he heard Potter’s unconscious, non-committal humming.

“Mr. Potter,” he started. “Is something wrong?”

“What?” Potter looked up, taken aback. “What -- oh. No. It’s nothing. Sorry, sir.”

“You have been humming incessantly for some time now,” Severus said. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

“That would be going too far,” Potter muttered under his breath but the professor heard him loud and clear. At his pointed stare, the boy shrugged and hunched his back, scowling and leaning into the stack of first-year essays. “No, sir.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Very well.”

They worked in silence and tandem for quite some time, each focused on his workload. Potter seemed to look at the rubric less often, and Severus was oddly pleased to see that there had been noticeable improvement, as opposed to the boy’s classwork.

“Actually,” Potter spoke, his voice stark in the quiet room. “I was wondering something. Sir.”

“...And that is?”

“Malfoy has been acting strange this year,” Potter said, averting his gaze. Severus could feel a spike of panic in his chest. 

_ Had Potter been investigating Draco? _

“Is he -- err, this sounds a bit weird when I say it out loud -- is he all right? The charges against his dad have dropped after all, but Hermione also noticed that his grades have been falling a little--”

“Are you going to bore me to sleep with your conspiracy theories?” Severus asked him. “Whatever is happening with Mr. Malfoy, is no business of yours, Mr. Potter. I  _ kindly  _ suggest that you give up on your pursuit.”

“But--”

“No buts. Mr. Malfoy’s business is  _ none of yours,  _ no matter how…  _ altruistic  _ your reasons for investigating maybe.”

The clock chimed, signaling the end of the detention. Severus rose from his seat and loomed over the boy.

“Now,” he said. “Out. Our time is up. I expect you to control your friends’ rule-breaking endeavors -- though I suspect assigning you that task won’t curb that behavior.”

“Sir--”

_ “Out.” _

***

Over the whole week, Severus watched Harry Potter in his natural habitat. To his surprise, he wasn’t loud and obnoxious.  _ Sociable  _ perhaps, but quieter than he remembered. He had a tight-knit group of friends he spent time with the most, but he also conversed regularly with students from other Houses.

Some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs whom he recognized, some he didn’t. Potter’s reach was far, from the looks of it.

Potter also spent a meager amount of his time practicing Quidditch, which was the  _ minimum  _ he had to do as the captain of his team. Severus had been under the impression that the boy had been doing all he could do to win the matches, but he supposed that the allure of solving mysteries had trumped his desire for victory.

_ He isn’t all that similar to James Potter,  _ the thought occurred to him, but he shook it off almost immediately after. 

During class, Severus saw that Potter had exceptionally fast reflexes and dueling skills that were…  _ not too bad.  _ He seemed like he could hold up his own against an average Death Eater if the situation called for it, which was better than nothing. 

***

“I apologize for the limited information, my Lord. I know that my report wasn’t very detailed, but Potter wouldn't divulge personal information to me. We aren’t exactly close, and I’m afraid any attempt to  _ get  _ closer would be suspicious.”

"Completely understandable, considering that the interest is coming from the man who  _ provoked  _ him," the Dark Lord pointed out, eyeing him sharply. "You have done as good a job as one can expect from a man like you, Severus. Now..."

He rose from his high-backed seat. Severus lowered his head in deference, praying to all that oversaw the humanity that the man would not go back on his words.

"Look at me, Severus," the sibilant voice ordered. "Look at your master's face. Look into my  _ eyes  _ and show me what you saw."

With great hesitance, Severus did so and held back a gasp at the foreign presence within his mind, crawling through his insides. He kept his thoughts clear and unassuming, masking them with mist and confusion. As the Dark Lord scoured in his head, he did not even spare a look at Severus' thoughts, attacking his memories instead.

_ "As crystal." The boy opened his mouth in remembrance, quickly adding, "sir." _

_ "What?" Potter asked, bemused, eyes wide and bright green. His expression was of utmost surprise. "It’s nothing. Sorry, sir.” _

_ "That would be going too far," the boy grumbled like a mountain troll, pouting and looking wholly petulant. He hunched, and his hair bobbed with the movement, black as a raven's coat. _

_ "Actually," Potter said, looking at him under his eyelashes, transfixed and determined. "I was wondering something." _

"My Lord," Severus stammered but could not bring about the next. 

The Dark Lord pushed him away, stepping back abruptly like a wild animal. He sank into his seat, subdued and shivering as if in a great rage. Severus made to approach him, fearful of what might happen.

"My Lord--"

"Leave."

The curt command took him by surprise. "...I will return with better news."

The man nodded and showed him to the door with a weary flick of his hand. As Severus left, as had become routine, he looked back one last time.

Difficult times were ahead. But perhaps, they didn't have to be.

***

  
  


So he sat with fingers on his temples, a mess of heat and blubbering  _ bubbling  _ in his chest. Lord Voldemort didn't know whether to melt into the marble or soar out of the window -- preferably both. 

And wherever he looked, he saw  _ Harry  _ with his pretty eyes and his sly gaze, his slight form under the cloak and the sound of his  _ voice. _

_ His snark!  _ Voldemort flushed at the thought, an involuntary smile sneaking onto his face.  _ He sounded like quite the delinquent there. Or perhaps it was Severus' view that made me think so? He was so unwilling to talk, but his humming was endearingly adorable. _

Harry Potter was  _ something.  _ Voldemort's heart wanted to know what he was.

***

_ “Harry,”  _ Hermione hissed, tugging on his elbow. “They are going to see us! We have to go back!”

"Look,  _ be quiet,  _ please. I promise you won't regret this!" He dragged her toward the empty, dark hall that Snape had followed. Hermione came involuntarily but with a resolved step, determined to make sure that Harry would not come out of this harmed.

They heard faint murmurs at the east end, so Harry led them to the wall and pulled the Invisibility Cloak on. 

"Come on," he whispered and held her arm as they made their way closer.

"I won't!" Malfoy cried. "You think it's that easy? It's not, my father wouldn't have let me--"

"Stop and  _ think,  _ Draco," Snape snarled. Harry held his breath still as the professor grabbed Malfoy's arm and shook him.  _ "Think  _ for once in your life. You are a  _ child.  _ The Dark Lord has given you an impossible task--"

"I can do it!" Malfoy exclaimed. He wrenched his arm back. He was panting as if he had run a great marathon, trying hard not to cry. "I will succeed and my family will--"

"You can't save everyone, Draco."

"But what if I  _ can?"  _ he asked, desperate in a way Harry had never seen him, face blanched and eyes shining. "I was ordered to -- I am, I know -- but it's  _ so hard.  _ Merlin,  _ it's hard,  _ Severus."

"You don't have to," Snape told him. "Not anymore."

_ "What?" _

_ Yeah _ , Harry wondered with him.  _ What? _

"There are new...  _ variables  _ affecting matters right now. The Dark Lord has changed. If you fail now, it is improbable that he will punish you harshly, if  _ at all."  _ Snape perused the hallway. “Come with me. I will explain everything.”

As soon as the two left the vicinity, Harry pulled the cloak off them and asked, breathing harshly, “Did you  _ hear  _ that?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered, spellbound. “Do you know what this means? Harry! You --  _ Merlin,  _ you were  _ right.  _ Draco’s a  _ Death Eater!” _

Harry nodded. “Yeah, but what do you think this --  _ thing  _ he had to do was?”

“I have no idea,” she started, precluding a rambling session. “I mean, it looks like he had to do it so Voldemort wouldn’t punish his family but -- if what Snape said is true, and why do you think that is? Voldemort  _ changing?  _ That sounds especially suspicious.”

“Let’s get back to the party before they notice,” Harry suggested, tugging her along as they traded theories with whirring minds.


	7. A solis ortu usque ad occasum.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _From sunrise to sunset._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm _so sorry, everyone--_ we've been having some family troubles this week, so the two chapter plan was a failure. I promise that I'll post the next two chapters this week, and I hope I can keep up with the schedule after that. I have the eighth chapter outlined, but the ninth chapter's still a mystery. Thank you all! <3

“With the  _ Muffliato  _ charm done,” Hermione spoke, “I think we can finally talk.”

Ron groaned. “Can’t you guys do this when we aren’t having dinner? I’d rather focus on the food.”

“It’s  _ important,  _ Ron!”

The ginger shrugged. “Not more important than  _ food,  _ is it? I’m a growing boy!”

“Anyway,” Harry interrupted them. “We have to talk about this. Hermione, you remember what Snape said  _ exactly,  _ right?”

“Yes! It’s incredible to think you were actually right -- Draco’s  _ really  _ a Death Eater, he was  _ really  _ after something! I can’t believe I missed it!”

Right that second, food appeared on the table, and Ron dug in with a cry of,  _ “My precious!”  _ Hermione went on to repeat Snape’s words to him.

“So what if the git’s a Death Muncher?” Ron asked, swallowing his mouthful. “Didn’t he say that he doesn’t have to do  _ what’s-it  _ anymore?”

“But what if they’ve  _ already  _ done something?” Harry shot back. “What if Malfoy had to do something like  _ poison  _ all the Muggleborns? What if he had to sabotage something the Order is doing? Snape’s probably helping him, the bastard. Whatever it is, I’m  _ certain  _ that it wasn’t nothing.”

Over the years, despite the fact that Snape had helped their side in some shape or form, he had always had this slick,  _ repulsive  _ way he had conducted himself with. Harry wouldn't say that his intuition was superb, but it had  _ some  _ credibility.

“Maybe You-Know-Who told him to assassinate Snape,” Ron jested. Hermione snorted in spite of herself. “See? Maybe he wanted to convince Malfoy not to kill him and spouted some bullshit. What if his boss found out that he hasn’t been entirely on his side?”

“He’s a  _ double agent,  _ Voldemort knows that, Ron,” Hermione said, having gathered herself. “Had he discovered that Professor Snape’s defected, he would have probably summoned and killed him by himself. And anyway, we need to learn what he means by  _ Voldemort has changed.  _ I don’t know if this is bad news or good news.”

“Bad,” Harry said immediately. “I have never received any good news from Voldemort. There is no way this is anything else.”

“Maybe he’s finally decided that you’re too much maintenance and left you alone,” Ron commented, chewing some roast beef. “Say, aren’t you guys gonna eat?”

Well, that was too much to hope for with the Prophecy hanging over their heads, like a bizarre and twisted Damocles' sword.

“Later. Harry, remember how  _ desperate  _ Draco looked?” Hermione reminded him. He winced at the mention of it. “It was obviously something extremely difficult! There is no way he would have been able to complete it, with the way Professor Snape was telling him to give up. Do you think Ron was right?”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “What?”

“An  _ assassination,”  _ Hermione emphasized. “Do you think it could be an assassination? We can never rule it out. You remember that cursed necklace Katie had?”

Harry  _ did  _ remember the incident. Katie had ended up in Saint Mungo's because of it -- but to think it was premeditated… 

“The  _ necklace,”  _ Harry gasped. “Shit. That makes sense --  _ too much  _ sense. But why would Voldemort want to kill Katie? She’s a Pureblood.”

Hermione gave him a pointed look. “Really, Harry? Of  _ course  _ he doesn’t have any problem with her -- not her  _ directly.  _ I’m quite sure that she wasn’t the intended victim. Remember how she didn’t touch it until later? That implies that she wasn’t the target.” She smiles, victorious. “She was the carrier _.  _ The decoy.”

“Listening to you two is like listening to Lavender and Parvati talk about boys, but with the aura of  _ conspiracy theory.” _

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Hermione said. _“Won-Won.”_

“That was one time!”

“And listening to  _ you two  _ is like listening to old people fight over garden gnomes,” Harry told them. “Can we get back to the topic? Hermione, that’s brilliant _.  _ Honestly, it sounds awfully like the truth. You think we can confirm it?”

“I spoke to Katie about it, but she said that the only thing she remembered was being compelled to go to the bathroom.”

“That means she could’ve been  _ Imperiused before  _ going in,” Harry tried to think. “So the package was in the bathroom? But would Malfoy really go into the girls’ loo?”

“Knew he was a bit girly,” Ron said, drawing Harry and Hermione’s disbelieving gazes. “What? If Malfoy had had boobs, I don’t think he’d have any trouble adjusting. Anyway.  _ Say  _ that Malfoy went in and put the package there, what then?”

“He hides somewhere close,” Hermione gushes, an intense gleam in her eyes. “He  _ had  _ to be nearby, he would have needed to monitor her. He couldn’t have just left her to her own devices. Who knew what could go wrong? But short of having an Invisibility Cloak, he doesn’t have many options for stealth. We haven’t learnt the technique for Disillusionment Charms yet, and Invisibility Cloaks are only given with permits. That would have left a paper trail, and it's illegal to own one for minors. His family has to avoid suspicion for a while yet.”

“Maybe he had an accomplice?” Harry threw fuel into the fire. He  _ also  _ vaguely noticed that he was starving, so he spooned some rice into his mouth.

When he looked back up, Hermione’s eyes had taken on a new shine, staring into the distance.

“Accomplice,” she repeated, as if on the verge of a miraculous discovery -- which, she probably  _ was.  _ “Of  _ course.” _

“I’ve no idea what you’re thinkin’ right now, ‘Mione,” Ron said as he swallowed down another portion of dinner. “You wanna  _ enlighten  _ us? So what if he had an accomplice? Any of his Slytherin buddies might have helped him.”

“You don’t understand--” Hermione made a frantic gesture and took a deep breath. “They would have had to hide too and they would have wanted a guarantee of safety, so -- don’t you _see?_ Draco _Imperiused_ _his accomplice!”_

“Wait--” Ron coughed a bit, gathering his wits, then exclaimed, “You are telling us that Malfoy cursed someone to  _ curse  _ someone else? Like, he was compelling someone to compel Katie Bell to kill someone. That’s a tad complicated, innit?”

“What if he couldn’t tell anyone? He had to have an alibi, so he might have--” She paused, pressing her lips together. “Well, it just sounds _logical._ There are alternatives to the Imperius Curse, but they are less effective and have a lot of loopholes and conditions. I don’t think any of his Slytherin friends would help him, and I don’t think he was working _together_ with anyone. Do you remember his face, Harry? He was _obviously_ in trouble, but he wouldn’t have asked for the help he needed.”

“Maybe he was just stressed out?” Ron said, shrugging. Harry shrugged with him. “He's failing, after all. You two should eat, by the way -- we can talk more after dinner.”

\---

The headquarters were the place where the scum of Death Eaters did not frequent. This was the base in which the Dark Lord was situated, and Severus would eat his left foot if the Dark Lord hadn’t made it that way deliberately. There was no need for an excess of stupidity.

As he made his way across the courtyard to the manor’s gates, Severus contemplated again the chances of succeeding. Though he  _ did  _ wish for Draco to be spared this agony  _ (not to mention that his life was hanging onto this, courtesy of an Unbreakable Vow),  _ he did not wish to be tortured within an inch of his life for it. The Dark Lord had been unpredictable this week, moods fluctuating between amiable and furious at the world.

He could think of the reason why. Around this point, the batch of Amortentia must be running out fast. Had this been a normal  _ self-dosing  _ incident, the Dark Lord could have recovered quite easily, as happened in most cases of long-term Amortentia usage. But this wasn’t a typical love potion incident. The man’s symptoms of love-sickness had increased in the last two weeks, going from rubbing the chair’s cushions to clutching his own robes in the presence of his servants. If Severus wasn’t mistaken, around this point in the timeline, the Dark Lord would be at the height of love-sickness as well as slightly immune to the potion, meaning that the batch was declining exponentially with the increased dosages. That might be what was causing such grief in the man, though Severus had never found the thought of  _ the Dark Lord’s grief  _ tasteful.

How could such a remorseless, narcissistic man feel  _ grief?  _ How could he feel  _ love?  _ Anything other than rage and sadistic pleasure had to be something artificial, for anything that was even remotely  _ peaceful or mild  _ could not be cultivated in that sick mind.

Yet he had the evidence right in front of him, looking as haggard and worn-down as any ordinary man could be. 

“I did not know that Draco had been struggling,” the man said, voice gravelly. Though his voice was like that, his tone was anything but vulnerable.

“He has been falling asleep in class for a while now,” Severus expounded upon the matter. “I thought to inquire of what has been causing him stress, and it seems as though his task is not progressing well. He is extremely afraid of disappointing you, my Lord. I do not believe he will be able to cope with it when he fails.”

“When,” the Dark Lord repeated. “You don’t believe in his capabilities?”

“Not exactly. What I don’t believe is that Dumbledore could be bested by an infantile assassination attempt.”

The Dark Lord hummed indifferently, caressing the underside of his Adam’s apple. Severus insistently ignored the motion.

“I want Dumbledore dead before the end of the school year,” the man said at last. “But you are telling me that Draco is unfit for the task.”

“I apologize if I’ve been impertinent, my Lord.”

The Lord sighed. “There are times impertinence is required, Severus. How else would I know if something is wrong? I do not wish to pluck the problem from the minds of my followers, every time.”

Severus nodded.

“I value your opinion --  _ usually,”  _ the man continued, reminding the potioneer of the earlier incident with Potter. “If you believe that the task surpasses Draco’s ability, then I will consider it. Yet Dumbledore must die… How to go about that?”

“My Lord,” Severus spoke, pulse picking up. “I would be willing to finish his task.”

_ “You?  _ Why is that, Severus?”

“Draco is my godson, my Lord. I also… harbor a  _ deep hatred  _ for the Headmaster. I have never forgiven him for his mistakes -- mistakes that cost me a better childhood.”

“What a  _ deep hatred  _ that is,” the Dark Lord said, sardonic. “I suppose that  _ deep hatred  _ is what made you so vehement? I never knew you enjoyed ruthless killing.” He paused and cocked a mocking eyebrow. “Had I known that before, I would have assigned you patrol duty with Bella, when you two first started out.”

“I do have hatred for the man,” Severus spoke regardless of the not-so-veiled doubt. “It is not a violent hatred, but I abhor his very soul. It is repulsing for me, to be in his presence. I have often wished to make him hurt, but the opportunity never revealed itself.”

“And you suppose this is the opportunity you’ve been waiting for?”

“I only wish what you allow me to, my Lord,” Severus said with finality, filled to the brim with trepidation. 

The Dark Lord scoffed, eyes straying to the window. It was a clear, starry night. Severus did not wonder what he saw in the somber lights, for the thought was strange to him.

“Prove me your worth, Severus.” The Dark Lord looked back at him, apparently surmising that he was truthful. “Kill him then. Plan it well. Make sure he does not die a martyr, and inspiration for his people. I want him to  _ crawl  _ in dirt, to suffer the mistakes of his past.”

“Your wish is mine, my Lord,” he replied, relief making him faint. This changed  _ everything.  _ “I will not disappoint.”

“On  _ one  _ condition.”

Severus froze.

The man smiled, an entirely insincere and mocking smile. “You have failed your previous mission, however partially. Tell Draco to expect a missive from me, telling him the specifics of his new task. He shall do a better job than  _ you,  _ surely.”

Severus drew a sudden breath. “Yes. My Lord.”

“Go, Severus.”

\---

_ \--and I know that he’s up to something, I just know it-- _

Sirius sighed as he read Harry’s letter, downing the last of the firewhiskey down his gullet. His fingers trembled over the quill, the ink dripping a larger and larger stain on the paper. Over at the opposite wall, a ridiculously big grandfather clock  _ ticked, tocked, ticked, tocked-- _

He exhaled shakily and ran a hand through his shaggy hair, noting the length. He probably should have taken Molly up on that haircut offer. Next time then. He twisted the quill between his fingers, watching the feather’s swaying motion. The ink ruined the paper. He would have to find a new one, or siphon the ink out, banish it and properly write.

_ Dear Harry,  _ he wrote on the corner as practice.  _ Don’t be an idiot-- _

_ No, no,  _ he thought to himself, growling and throwing the quill away. It didn’t go as far as he hoped, and floated gently to the floor. 

Merlin. Closing his eyes and sighing, he sighed again just for the feeling. Why was he so crude all the time?

He had never known how to mince his words, instead delivering the punchline in an altogether  _ punching  _ way. He had once relished the sight of those flummoxed, incredulous faces; but now, those were the faces he didn’t want to see.

Sirius wanted to be responsible. For Harry’s sake.

_ If I had fallen into that veil,  _ he remembered, shivering.  _ If I had, Harry would have been alone. Or not alone --  _ **_lonelier_ ** _. I would have left him alone to deal with all this bullshit. _

Never going to happen. Sirius was determined to be the adult that dealt with shit instead of leaving Harry with the shitty parts. He wanted to show him alternatives,  _ choices,  _ paths laden with less  _ pain _ . He did believe in the cause of the Order, but Harry needed someone to defend his selfish interests.

Harry needed someone to be  _ selfish for him _ . Because he wouldn’t do it for himself.

_ Dear Harry,  _ he wrote again, siphoning the lake of ink out of the paper.  _ Listen. This is dangerous business. I know all too well how it feels to be responsible for too much. You can’t fix this by yourself, Harry. _

_ Just like I can’t,  _ Sirius thought bitterly.

_ Tell someone else. Someone  _ _ responsible, _ he underlined twice.  _ Someone who has power over him and the means to fix this. Hell -- go to his Head of House! I remember Slughorn preaching about how his Slytherins deserve help, when he was teaching. He’s the Potions professor, isn’t he? You could go to him, since he cares so much about the students’ well being.  _

_ You could even go to Snape with it,  _ he wrote, but thought better of it and siphoned that part out. The chances are the bastard would try to  _ Obliviate  _ Harry to keep the secret.

_ You might be right about Malfoy being up to something,  _ he wrote instead.  _ And if you still want to pursue the lead, at least get some help. Get someone reliable to help you. And to be honest, Snape’s behavior’s weirdly familiar to me. He was probably protecting Malfoy, since he never cares about random students having missions from the Dark Lord. And though the thought is hard to swallow, he might actually be  _ _ actively  _ _ working against the maniac. _

He was rubbish at this  _ being cautious  _ thing. Sirius snorted and signed his name at the bottom, with wishes of safety for Harry.

But… It made him kind of  _ proud of himself.  _ He was trying.  _ Poorly,  _ but he was trying to be better. He felt happy.

At the corner, a plate of Molly’s chocolate chip cookies snagged his attention. He wondered if Harry would want them and decided to put some in a package along with his letter.

\---

A new parcel arrived in a tawny owl’s talons. It slipped through the open window, silent as a night breeze, and circled in the room before landing on the desk. Neat and groomed, the owl stared haughtily at Voldemort’s messiness.

“Yes, yes -- judge my appearance. Don’t you have places to be?”

The owl hooted once and put the parcel down, flapping its great wings and taking flight again. He did not watch it leave, for he was busy with the vial in the parcel.

Voldemort cut through the brown paper with a letter opener, and coaxed out the delicate vial with gentle fingers. The silver glow of memories set a shine to the darkened study, the liquid painting the glass insides with stars and a lazy grey. He stood up and summoned his pensieve, uncorking the vial.

His heart was beating in his throat and his chest was tight. He had watched more of these memories again and again for the last week, desperate for one last taste of paradise.

The potion was almost finished.

He let the memories drip into the basin, and watched fascinated as the color turned a bright, warm gold. The vial was set aside, and he let his head lower into the pensieve’s waters.

_ He emerged in a dark corridor. The sounds of deep footsteps clanked against his ears, alerting him to the origin. Knowing Lucius’ son, he would have kept a fair distance from his target. _

_ He walked through the winding corridors in search of the steps and the faint, whispering voice. The walls curved on him, the floor widened to allow his passage. The images of the memory were distorted for most of the viewing. _

_ Voldemort stopped in his tracks when he heard a comprehensible sound, a fragment of a conversation. Draco must have been close by enough to listen. _

_ “He was here just some nights ago.” _

_ “Snape might have achieved his objective.” _

_ A scoff. The sound set Voldemort’s heart alight. He hastened his steps. “Do you really think Voldemort would let him switch without any retribution?” _

_ “I don’t think we can expect anything specific right now.” It was a girl’s voice, with a serious tone and a chiding cadence. “Something has to have happened. Come on, let’s go back.” _

_ Harry hummed. Voldemort turned the corner just as the boy looked at the intersection, and found himself frozen still, as he had been every time when looking at Harry’s gaze. _

_ He had such lovely, judgmental eyes. Voldemort loved picking apart the minute twitches of his eyelids, the quick darting of his irises. The green, he liked also -- though that might be more the potion and his Slytherin bias talking. _

_ “I think I heard someone,” Harry whispered to the girl. He started moving immediately, rummaging through a drawstring bag to take out a long, flowing cloak -- it had a strange, shifting color. Voldemort couldn’t quite place what exactly it reminded him of. _

_ Harry pulled the cloak over his and his friend’s shoulders, pulling the cowl over to hide their heads. Voldemort startled when they disappeared, melting perfectly into the murals and windows. _

_ “An Invisibility Cloak,” he mused. “It suits you.” _

_ Draco had probably disillusioned himself to avoid being seen. If he stood stock still and merely watched, he would not be caught, and Draco was quite good at standing without tremors. Voldemort wondered if he had planned to lead the teenagers to this corridor deliberately, waiting until he could get the memory for his lord. The thought didn’t affect him as much as it would have, before the love incident scrambled his heart. _

The memory ended. It was short in duration and left him feeling bereft, but it was all he had that was close enough.

Voldemort sighed and left the pensieve alone, walking to his  _ (Lucius’) _ liquor cabinet to open yet another bottle, to drown his sorrows and joys.

_ Only a little time left,  _ he ruminated.  _ What will become of me now? This has changed me. I can no longer look at myself and see me. Nothing remains. _

He looked into the honeyed color, sloshing around the liquid in the crystal bottle.

He sighed.

_ It obliterates. Every picture it paints, it paints only darkened days. I don’t want to let go. _

\---

_ There is the smell of warmth, earth in his palms, then the smell of flowers and a river under his feet. Slippery, slimy pebbles sitting under the current. He looks at the horizon and sees a ship approaching, people waving at him and offering a hand. He hops aboard and the excitement is over, the wood around him is dusty. _

_ Someone calls for him and he turns around, walking into a sunlit kitchen. There are prisms hanging over the window ledge, breaking the light into pieces and bathing the room in color. Outside the window, there is only white and clouds. He runs his hand over a row of jars, smooth glass on his skin and metal on his fingers. _

_ Someone calls for him. _

_ “I’m here already,” Harry says, and gazes at the sunlight. The light hums and he reaches out to touch it. It passes through his fingers, and he feels happiness. He is warm and at peace. _

_ Someone is calling for him. _

“Harry, it’s ten o’clock.”

_ A contender. He can trick him into leaving, yes. He only needs to stay silent long enough… And then he would be at peace… Forever comfortable…  _

“Harry, wake up!”

_ Oh  _ **_come on._ **

Harry groaned as he realized that the feeling of ultimate peace was a dream, and turned his back to the world by tugging the duvet higher, betrayed and miserable. The warmth was calling to him, snuggling him deeper in its loving embrace. He wanted to sleep all over again.

“Mate, come on, I need to ask if you’re gonna eat these.”

“Eat it,” Harry told him. “I wanna go back.”

But it was no use. The thread of the dream has escaped his reach, and now Harry was doomed to live in the waking world -- cold, strange, and not peaceful at all. The warmth was seeping out of the softness, leaving only discomfort and cold sheets.

“I wish you’d just _eaten_ the thing,” Harry said, groaning and pushing the cover off. _“How_ _could you_ wake me up? For once, I was having a good dream.”

“Hey, it’s  _ your  _ cauldron cake.” Ron took a large bite out of it, moaning around the mouthful of sweetness. “Ma’, dis ee’ a’mah’in.”

“What? On second thought, never mind. Enjoy your cake.”

“I said  _ this is--” _

Ron stopped, mouth open and blinking. Harry watched as he furrowed and unfurrowed his brows, looking utterly bemused. He stood as if he were out of place.

“Harry,” Ron said at last. He looked thunderstruck. “You remember Romilda Vane, right?”

“Who?”

“That girl!” Ron exclaimed. Harry felt as though he was witnessing a scientific breakthrough, with the way his friend was acting. “The one that was around! She has such  _ luscious  _ black hair, and her eyes are like the night sky!”

“Yeah,” Harry drawled out, feeling even more skeptical now. He vaguely remembered a dark-haired girl giving him the cakes, giggling as if she was on a Tickling Charm. He eyed the cauldron cake and frowned. “I think you’ve had enough of that. Give me the cake, Ron.”

The ginger shot to his feet and gasped in outrage. “Never! It’s from Romilda!”

“How the  _ hell  _ do you even know her name?!”

“It’s  _ Romilda Vane, _ Harry, of course I know her! She’s…” Ron sighed in lovesickness and hunched his back, gazing wistfully at the cake. “She’s  _ beautiful.  _ Do you think she’d go out to Hogsmeade with me?”

“...Sure she would,” Harry said. “In fact, I think I know where she is. Wanna go and see her?”

“Really!”

“Yeah, I think she--” Harry thought fast. Ron needed a cure, probably for a potion. “--was with Slughorn. We should go greet her -- you know, introduce you two.”

“Thanks, mate,” Ron said. Harry led and his friend followed. “You’re a good friend. Merlin,  _ Romilda Vane!  _ I think I’m in love with her, Harry.”

“Right.”

It seemed like Harry had escaped a terrible fate, courtesy of Ron’s untimely hunger. He would have to pay him back for this. Maybe next Hogsmeade weekend? Harry would buy Ron all the fried chicken he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the _Seventh Chapter Special_ we have my very own "hilarious" author notes and comments for some very specific parts of the chapter.
> 
>  _“So what if the git’s a Death Muncher?”_ (Ahahha I admit that it just jumped into my mind and I went, "what the hell, maybe he WOULD say that, fuck canon lmao")
> 
>  _“What if Malfoy had to do something like poison all the Muggleborns?"_ (Brilliant deduction harry, truly the sherlock of our times)
> 
>  _“Bad,” Harry said immediately. “I have never received any good news from Voldemort. There is no way this is anything else.”_ (Oh ye of little faith)
> 
>  _“Maybe he’s finally decided that you’re too much maintenance and left you alone,” Ron commented, chewing some roast beef._ (I'm picturing a Karen :pensive:)
> 
>  _"But why would Voldemort want to kill Katie?"_ (wHy WoULd VoLdEmOrT wAnT tO kiLL kAtiE?????)
> 
>  _Hermione gave him a pointed look. “Really, Harry?"_ (Literally my reaction to the thing I wrote by mine own hands)
> 
>  _“And listening to you two is like listening to old people fight over garden gnomes,” Harry told them._ (Finally found something that grandmas and grandpas fought over. For a whole fifteen minutes I was sweating there like "ah fuck-")
> 
>  _"Invisibility Cloaks are only given with permits. That would have left a papertrail, and it's illegal to own one for minors. His family has to avoid suspicion for a while yet.”_ (they see me ROLLIN' (Making Up Random Laws On The Spot That Conveniently Does Whatever I Need It To) they HATIN'-)
> 
>  _"Like, he was compelling someone to compel Katie Bell to kill someone."_ (Well, when you say it like that... it IS stupid)
> 
> Additionally: _innit_ (I've always wanted to use this in a dialogue! :D <3)
> 
>  _It obliterates. Every picture it paints, it paints only darkened days. I don’t want to let go._ (Watch me sprinkling Hamilton references like a sprinkler)
> 
>  _A contender. He can trick him into leaving, yes. He only needs to stay silent long enough… And then he would be at peace… Forever comfortable…_ (This is literally my inner monologue when someone interrupts my sleep)
> 
>  _Ron took a large bite out of it, moaning around the mouthful of sweetness._ (now I want cake TvT)
> 
>  _“Who?”_  
>  (Harry's Obliviousness: +1  
> Everything Else In The Universe That Wants To Bone Him: -4987655434569)
> 
>  _"Give me the cake, Ron.”_ (yes give me the cake ron i want cake)
> 
>  _Harry would buy Ron all the fried chicken he wanted._ (fried chicken = getting dosed with love potion and humiliating yourself)
> 
> <333


	8. Et facere et pati fortia Romanum est.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Acting and suffering bravely is the attribute of a Roman._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is nearly twice a chapter TvT I accidentally wrote too much, but c'est la vie (showers in confetti) I'm planning on writing the third chapter soon, but it might get delayed again! (though you know now that I'll do my damnedest best to adhere to my update schedule) (this update schedule is my bABY)
> 
> (Also: Voldemort has SNAKY FACE RN)

Malfoy Manor was located in a rural, isolated area in the north. The meadows and the forests were as green as they come, and the air was fresh like a mountain top. In the morning hours, toward dawn, the sunlight shone on the vast gardens and set a warm, lively glow to the pastures.

It was a gorgeous morning when Voldemort went into these gardens, intent on finding his center and meditating without distraction. Nagini accompanied him (but really, she always did), however, that didn’t upset him at all. On the contrary, Nagini’s presence was wholly welcome.

So they walked into the forest to find a quiet, tranquil place.

_Is Master happy?_ Nagini asked, bemused.

_“Almost,”_ Voldemort answered. He couldn’t exactly tell his snake the complexities of _emotions,_ could he?

Nagini hissed with displeasure. _I’ll eat what saddens Master,_ she declared. _Then Master will be at peace._

It wasn’t that simple, but Voldemort was fond of her protectiveness. He whistled for her enjoyment and watched as Nagini bobbed her head to the cadence of the sound.

Along the way, he eyed many flowers with consideration, feeling hesitation slowly consuming him. He had wished to make a bouquet that Harry would like, but he didn’t know which flowers he liked, whether he liked flowers at all, or whether he was _allergic_ to flowers. What if he unwittingly caused him to go into anaphylactic shock?

They came upon a wide, open area laden with rare and beautiful flowers, and a river flowing right through the middle. Nagini hissed in excitement and threw herself into the field, hunting for _“snacks”_ \-- frogs, grasshoppers, ladybugs, and all the other small creatures of a forest. She had been eating nothing but mice and rats for some time, and Voldemort supposed this was a nice change of pace for her.

_Master!_ She exclaimed. He crouched as she brought a pile of dead dragonflies to him. _Treasure!_

_“So it seems, Nagini,”_ he said. Scratching under her chin affectionately, he put a magical bubble around the dragonflies. _“This will prevent them from rotting.”_

_They will always be pretty now?_

_“For as long as I live.”_

_Then Master shall live forever,_ Nagini told him. Voldemort smiled at her earnest words.

They continued going through the meadow, Nagini for more _treasure_ to find and Voldemort for clarity of mind. Walking was soothing, especially when it was among greenery and color. He had only recently discovered this, for he had never before cared about walking for relaxation.

Around the riverside, he found a patch of gently swaying myrtles. He sat in front of them, by the river, and contemplated his decision.

Myrtles were for weddings, he remembered. Myrtles were for _weddings_ and sometimes for Beltane. He couldn’t send a _wedding_ flower to a boy of sixteen. It would be ill-received -- if the meaning was received at all. And so close to the end of love, he wasn’t even sure if sending the flowers was a wise decision. He could no longer predict his future actions because he no longer felt that dark emptiness of before.

_Master’s being sad,_ Nagini spoke as she winded over his shoulders. He caressed her scales absentmindedly.

_“Master is thinking of Harry,”_ he told her.

She made an odd, understanding noise. _Master shouldn’t think about sad things._

Voldemort sighed and said stupidly, _“Harry isn’t sad.”_ Then he paused and murmured, _“I wonder if Harry would like a bouquet.”_

_Does Master’s Harry like plants?_

_“I don’t know,”_ Voldemort answered, though his heart had sped up at the notion of _his_ Harry _._ He deliberately took that thought out of his mind, since it was rather presumptuous of him. _“Should I still send them?”_

Nagini didn’t know of human customs of courtship, however, and Voldemort knew to expect little from her. The snake hissed confusedly and told him, _What Master does is what Master does._

Nagini might not be knowledgeable about people, but at least she was a simple and lovable creature. Voldemort was pleased that he had made her into a Horcrux. He sighed again and petted her head, deciding that _yes, he would pick the myrtles._ Let this love do whatever it wanted while it could.

So he waded into the river’s steady, cool waters, and Nagini followed him with a happy sound. His familiar splashed around in the water, though Voldemort made sure to warn her not to get too cold and applied a Warming Charm.

The pebbles of the river were silky and slippery under his soles, moss and water sliding over his feet. He wiggled his toes and enjoyed the smooth sensation, keeping an eye on Nagini all the while. At the spot where the river flowed deeper into the forest, sunlight shone over the treetops.

He picked those myrtles afterward.

\---

Slughorn’s memories were finally in his clutches. Harry had a feeling he should have saved the luck potion for another time, but he had _also_ had a feeling that nothing he said would have ever convinced the professor.

As soon as he had received the memory he made his way to the Headmaster’s office. The gargoyle parted with the password and he ascended the staircase.

“Harry,” Dumbledore greeted with a nod of his head when Harry arrived. He nodded back and uttered a tiny greeting. “I wasn’t expecting you quite yet. Tell me, has something happened?”

“Yes,” he said. “I -- _err_ \-- got the memories, sir. Slughorn’s.”

“Oh, of course, I had completely forgotten about that. Come in. Do you have them with you?”

Harry brought out the vial of memories and let the elderly professor take it. The man uncorked it over the pensieve and let the memory drip into the bowl, painting the surface a glowing green _._

“Would you do the honors, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, making a welcoming gesture. “Into the past, we go.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied and held the edges, dipping his head into the glow.

_He had a feeling that Dumbledore was close by, though he couldn’t see him. Harry walked through the white ink-bleeding expanse towards the frame of the memory, reaching through the viscous fluid and into the picture._

_Everything snapped together, smoke forming into matter. Harry felt as though he was watching through a camera yet simultaneously living in the picture, a weird mixture of inside and outside._

_Harry saw Tom Riddle and Slughorn._

_Tom flicked the surface of a sandglass, walking with temperate steps toward the professor. He had a different presence right now, with no other students or professors around._

_A predator, he thought. Hunting for information._

_“I was in the library the other night,” the boy spoke, with a mild tone. “In the Restricted Section.”_

_“You remember this part, don’t you, Harry?” Dumbledore said. Harry startled. “We had viewed this far.”_

_“Yes,” he replied, turning his gaze to Tom Riddle again._

_“And-- I read something rather odd, about a bit of rare magic,” the Slytherin continued. If Harry hadn’t known better, he would have honestly thought he was only an inquisitive student, looking for answers to purely intellectual questions. Rather like Hermione._

_Slughorn resumed his expectant look, waiting patiently for Tom to get to the point._

_“It’s called -- as I understand it… Horcrux.”_

_“Slughorn really told him what they are, didn’t he?” Harry asked._

_Dumbledore nodded. “I’m afraid he did. However, you must understand, Harry; Tom Riddle had many influential friends, those who were rumored to have the darkest books in Britain. I do not doubt that he already knew what Horcruxes were, at this time.”_

_The whole conversation continued, while Harry only watched Tom. He had a subtle, balmy touch on his words, as if each sound that slipped from his lips was already rehearsed and beautified. One could almost say even his appearance was tailored to persuade -- with well-groomed hair, a pressed uniform, and a soft, gentle gaze-- though he didn’t seem to emote at all. There was no crease of a smile nor the wrinkles of a frown. Had there been, he could have passed for a human, instead of a person suit._

_“A Horcrux,” Slughorn started, looking horrified yet still explaining, “is an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”_

_“But I don’t understand how that works,” Tom insisted, walking closer. Harry could feel the intensity of his want even without an expression to accompany it._

_Slughorn seemed completely flummoxed, but he detailed further, “It splits one’s soul and hides part of it in an object… By doing so you are protected, should you be attacked and your body destroyed.”_

_Harry’s eyes widened in understanding._

_“Protected?”_

_“The part of your soul that is hidden lives on.” The professor paused. “In other words, you cannot die.”_

_A strange silence hung in the air, with the professor and the student staring at each other. Harry couldn’t understand how Slughorn never realized that Tom Riddle had ill-intentions -- a silence this thick, over a question asked in intellectual curiosity wasn’t normal no matter which angle you looked at it._

_Tom turned to the hearth, to the flickering fire in it._

_“But how does one split their soul, sir?” he asked then. Harry thought he looked especially regal, with his wrist in his hand behind his waist, the light setting a shadow at his back. Slughorn didn’t seem to agree._

_“I think you already know the answer to that, Tom.”_

_Tom took his time, not moving one inch. “Murder.”_

_“...Yes.” Slughorn went on, “Killing rips the soul apart, it’s a violation of nature.”_

_Harry saw Tom Riddle’s hand move, absentmindedly caressing the ring on his finger. It had a black, diamond-shaped stone that looked as cold as ice. A shiver crawled up his spine._

_“Can you only split the soul… once,” Tom asked, “or, for instance, seven--”_

_“Seven?” Slughorn repeated, frightened. He was getting increasingly paler as the memory continued. “Merlin’s beard, Tom, is it not bad enough to consider killing one person? But to rip the soul into seven pieces!” He stammered, “This is all hypothetical, isn’t it, Tom? All academic?”_

_“Of course, sir.” And then, like the blooming of flowers after hail, Tom smiled -- honeyed and comforting. “It’ll be our little secret.”_

Ejected from the memory, Harry leaned against the pensieve and reviewed what he learned.

“He has-- He has made Horcruxes then,” he said. “Seven?”

“Six,” Dumbledore told him, somber. “Tom Riddle’s diary, you’ll remember from your second year at Hogwarts. I had long since suspected that it had been a Horcrux and that it wasn’t the only one. This only confirms my suspicions.”

“And what else?”

“Did you see the ring he wore?” the headmaster asked. Harry nodded. “It is, quite possibly, also a Horcrux. There are many other objects he could have chosen, but instead, he chose to place his soul into his diary and his ring. Can you guess why, Harry?”

“It-- Well, not really. Maybe… because they are things related to -- his ideals?” Could a ring be tied to an ideal?

Dumbledore had a pleased smile under his beard. “Very good. Yes, indeed, they were symbols of his ideals and the values he chose to follow. The diary, for his hatred of Muggleborns and the reminder of his own humble beginnings. The ring -- well, I suppose I’ll have to explain that one--”

The door burst open and Snape entered, haggard and panting. Harry gawked at his sudden entrance, wondering what the urgency was.

“Albus,” Snape said. “This is important. We must speak at once. _Privately,”_ he added, sending a baleful look in Harry’s direction. 

“Is this what I think it is, Severus?”

“You guess correctly. I have _dire_ news.”

Dumbledore sighed. Facing Harry, he said, “Well, Harry, I see that I must send you off sooner than I had intended. Rest well tonight. I shall call you another day-- in the meantime, enjoy school. Now… Severus, what was that you were about to shout?”

\---

_He had stayed up all night, writing and crumpling love letters and apologies alike, wondering why he subjected himself to this torture. Voldemort had wanted to send a brief note along with the bouquet, but it felt_ **_wrong_ ** _. He didn’t want to send that note, yet the bouquet felt… bare without anything to pair it with._

**_Master should give his Harry food,_ ** _Nagini told him._ **_Food is good._ **

_Voldemort sighed yet again._

_He had called Severus then, so sleep-deprived and weary as he was. The man had arrived quickly enough, considering that it was the witching hours._

_Lord Voldemort had asked him for memories of Harry Potter, the most recent and most personal ones. Severus hadn’t disappointed and provided the information without a fight. Through his cold-feet induced actions, Voldemort had earnt that Harry disliked darker colors, that he always had a chocolate frog in his pocket, and that he wasn’t very talkative._

_Something sweet to pair with the bouquet then. Perhaps he could charm the myrtles to smell sweeter, to fit the treat?_

_He had muttered to himself about flower types and myrtles and whether Harry would like them, or whether he had an allergy indeed, but Nagini had hissed at him to hurry up or she would eat the bird. He had hurried back of course, though not without dismissing his servant._

_What luck it was, that he had not seen Severus Snape’s horrified eyes._

\---

“I admit that I’m disappointed,” Albus spoke, with a drawn-out exhalation. Severus’ eye twitched.

“Well,” he started. “Perhaps, had I known the truth earlier, I could have decided on the best course of action faster. You have my apologies for making you wait this long, but everything was under control. I dare say, things are _even better_ than they would have been otherwise.”

Albus held up a hand as a gesture of placation. “No need to defend yourself so passionately, my dear boy. Tell me then, when will the batch run out?”

“In--” Severus tried to estimate the exact time-- “a few days, I believe.”

Albus hummed. “Seems to me like you have been having some secret adventures. I _do_ love espionage stories -- don’t let me interrupt the narrative.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Severus snapped. “Well--”

He detailed the entire truth of the incident and the whole, embarrassing spectacle that the Death Eaters were forced to watch and ignore.

“Wormtail was involved in something related to the Amortentia incident,” Severus told him. “He denied any knowledge of such involvement, but I suspect that he was cursed to never speak of it.”

“Tom always felt shame in vulnerability,” Albus informed him, though Severus didn’t care one bit about the man’s psychology. “But we are digressing, what else do you wish to tell me?”

“The Dark Lord is unstable, as far as I’ve seen. He has been showing symptoms of love-sickness and some rare signs of severe Amortentia withdrawal, which has put his followers on high alert due to the unpredictability of his moods.”

“I must confess that I know little about love potions,” Albus interjected. “But this situation is quite peculiar, isn't it? I once read a study about unkeyed love potions, though my old mind can’t remember it well.”

Severus sighed. “Yes, well-- Amortentia, without keying, results in narcissism for a duration close to twenty-four hours. But the fact that we are actually in this situation means that something went _terribly wrong_ with the natural process.”

Albus made a curious sound, plucking a lemon drop from the bowl of candies and popping it into his mouth. Severus made a sour face but gave the old man time to think.

“I do believe this changes quite a lot,” Albus said at last.

“What do you plan to do?”

“Oh, the usual, I believe. Be on the lookout for anything suspicious, write to some old friends for advice… Perhaps I could send owls to some work friends, those who are familiar with love potions.”

“I _am_ an expert, Albus.”

_“And_ with psychology,” the man added, looking quite merry indeed. “We can’t be the experts of everything, Severus.”

“Yes, yes. Laugh at me, how very childish of you, Headmaster.” Severus shook his head in exasperation and went back on track, “As I said, this state is not permanent. The potion might change things, but will it change the course of the war as well?”

At once, Albus’ countenance turned somber, his laugh lines receding. The atmosphere turned graver with the knowledge of what was to come.

“To my understanding,” the old professor spoke, “Amortentia leaves no lingering effects after use. Therefore, we cannot hope for permanency. Voldemort’s situation is abnormal, but we must move forward with the assumption that this will not last.”

“Then what of Potter?”

“Harry? Well, I was thinking we would encourage him to keep within the castle for the next few months.”

_“That’s it?”_ Severus exclaimed. “Are you barking _mad?_ The Dark Lord could be out for the boy’s blood after a few days, and you think telling Potter to behave is the way?”

“It’s not _all_ I could do, of course.” Albus stroked his silver beard, eating another piece of candy. Severus was on the verge of an aneurysm. “I’m almost certain that Voldemort won’t hurt him quite yet, not while he is still entangled with feelings. He will want to decode these properly, and he will make his move only when he is certain that it will have results.”

“You can’t know that, Albus.”

“The best I can do is guess, my boy. I wish I could predict future events accurately, but alas!” He made an odd, half-amused and half-reeling sound. “I am no Seer. I _would_ ask dear Sybill but…”

_“Sybill_ has a track record of disastrous prophecies, which have benefited us only in the most superficial of ways.”

“Yet here we are,” Albus said as he gestured widely at the dim office. “On the topic of Harry’s fate, however.”

“Yes--” Severus didn’t know how to voice his thoughts, and the emotions within him felt strange. “What about his -- _status?”_

“Ah, the Horcrux? I see what has you so concerned. Fear not, I _will_ breach the topic with him, Severus. Did you think that I was that irresponsible?”

“What if the Dark Lord doesn’t _fall out of love?”_

If he didn’t… would that mean that the war could be stopped before it broke out?

Albus seemed deep in thought, yet tranquil as if he were contemplating the complexities of the universe, instead of whether a teenage boy would be allowed to live or not. “I suppose we will just have to wait and see. If Voldemort _does_ stay as he is, I wonder what he will do… Depending on the outcome, we might have to _breach that topic_ earlier.”

Severus wasn’t excited for the next few weeks.

\---

On Wednesday, Severus sent a letter to Narcissa and asked her to arrange for a meeting between friends, telling her to keep Lucius away from the alcohol.

_Dear Severus,_ she replied. _I would never keep my husband away from his precious alcohol. You know how testy he gets without it. Though, you are welcome to visit us any time aside from early mornings and noons._

_Figures she would leave out her tea parties,_ Severus snorted inwardly, writing that he would be there by nine in the evening, at the latest.

When he arrived, he was escorted to Lucius’ study by a house-elf. The elf opened the door and presented him to the Malfoys.

“Severus,” Lucius greeted excitedly. “Come in, we were about to open the elf wine.”

“Merlin save us all,” Severus replied dryly, hoping that the man fell asleep before he murdered his liver. “Narcissa, are you honestly letting him?”

“Elf wine _does_ have several beneficial effects on the body, and I have advised him to drink responsibly.”

Severus scoffed as he sat down across the pair. “We both know he won’t.”

“How insensitive,” Lucius cut in, “I’m still in the room, you both.”

“We are well aware.”

Narcissa laughed at her husband’s petulant expression, stroking his cheekbone in an affectionate move. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll save you when you’re near death. I believe Saint Mungo’s has a bed reserved for you.”

Lucius, flushing at the teasing, waved the jokes away, “Enough about my liver, let us drink and talk.”

They talked about Lucius’ many associates and the state of the Death Eaters, their curious silence. Severus shared a look with Narcissa when the topic came up, knowing the exact reason for the stagnancy. 

“--and then there was that moron, Halgan,” Lucius spat, halfway to a drunk nap. He was draped over Narcissa’s lap, glaring at the ceiling as if it had slaughtered his family. “I can’t believe he called the recruitment effort _unnecessary._ Where does he think we get the manpower? _By conjuring people?_ He better switch up that attitude or _I_ will.”

The woman chuckled, running a hand through the blond locks. “Of course, dear.”

“Halgan is an uneducated dark wizard we found in Knockturn Alley, Lucius,” he told him. “Of course he speaks with a first-year student’s amount of wisdom.”

“Still! The likes of Halgan are _insults_ to the Dark Side! Why, we ought to kick them all out…”

A few minutes after, the man fell into a deep slumber, snoring quite heavily. Severus, seeing the opportunity for what it was, threw a silencing charm at him and turned back to Narcissa.

“So,” she said, “where were we?”

“I believe we were talking about what to do about the Dark Lord.”

“Of course. Would you like to share your efforts, Severus?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are we not going to talk about the lack of _yours?”_

Narcissa seemed entirely relaxed, legs crossed, and hands on top of her knees. She gave him a misleading smile and summoned an elf, ordering a sobering draught.

“I have my own,” Severus told her, taking out his flask. He always brought one to his meetings with Lucius.

Narcissa nodded and let him have his small victories. “On the matter of the Dark Lord,” she started, “I had previous engagements scheduled for the month, as well as the fact that I am not particularly close to our leader. Aside from the incident with the potion, I had never had a moment alone with him. Can you see how that poses a problem?”

Severus hesitated. “I do. But you could have sped up the process, could you not have?”

“As I said, I had _previously scheduled engagements.”_

“Like _dinner parties?”_

“A woman has to have her indulgences, Severus,” she chided. “And that isn’t all. Any faster and the Dark Lord would have realized my ulterior motives. Do you honestly believe that it wouldn’t have caused trouble for my family?”

Severus snorted. “The Dark Lord as he is right now, wouldn’t have noticed his followers murdering each other to extinction, not while he’s focusing on--”

He shut his mouth.

Narcissa hummed, “Focusing on whom, Severus?”

“I can't tell you right now, it's…”

“Sensitive information?” she asked. “That's all right. Merlin knows I have my own bunch of secrets. But, Severus--” She smiled kindly. “You _do_ know that you can trust me, don’t you? Do you think I’d betray your secrets?”

“I think you’d do anything if it helped your family.”

“How rude of you. You are family too.”

Severus didn’t have an answer for that, so he simply supped at his sobering draught.

Narcissa’s smile widened at his silence and she stood up. “Why don’t you sleep at the guest chambers tonight? You deserve a good night’s sleep. Good night, Severus.”

He nodded, pensive. “Good night.”

\---

It was Friday when a black, hulking raven swooped down on the Gryffindor table, landing in the spot where Hedwig usually resided. Several students nearby screamed slightly and jumped back, the screeches of chairs echoing throughout the hall.

Harry stared stupefied at the bird, to its bead-like eyes and its puffed up plumage. It leaned into him and he leaned back in response, still in a staring contest.

“Harry,” Hermione hissed at him. “The _package.”_

_The what?_

As if reading his thoughts, the raven finally got out of Harry’s personal space and raised his leg higher, which Harry had just realized had been outstretched toward him already. _Oh._

He gazed at the package with an open mouth, eyes roaming all over its corners. It was a light, buoyant blue, topped with a white ribbon. 

“I don’t think Snuffles sent this,” Ron muttered, glancing between the package and him. “You gonna take it, mate?”

Harry reached out and held the package tentatively, afraid that a wrong move could set off the bird. The raven, however, didn’t make a sound and preened as he completed the delivery. He flapped his long wings and took flight, exiting the Great Hall as quickly as he had entered.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron sat confused and shocked just like most of the students, buried in silence for whole minutes.

“Well,” Harry said. “I guess I’ll have to open it.”

“I don’t like where this is heading,” Ron commented nervously. “That was a _raven,_ Harry. A _huge-ass raven._ You don’t see many wizards using ravens for post.”

_“Ronald,”_ Hermione spoke, indignant. “Are you suggesting _what I think you’re suggesting?”_

The teenager froze and glanced around, murmuring, “Maybe?”

_“Ronald.”_

“Come on, Hermione, it’s a _raven._ No one uses ravens.”

Harry tuned out their banter and pulled open the ribbon. As if magic, the box opened by itself and presented him with the smell of something sweet and warm. In the box was a bouquet of white, delicate flowers. They looked like large dandelion seeds covered in snowflakes, with a fragrance of something like butter and candy.

A few girls from the opposite seat leaned over, _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing at the flowers. Harry flushed, embarrassed.

“Are those myrtles?” Hermione asked from the side. Both she and Ron flanked him at his sides to look at the contents. Hermione sniffed doubtfully. “They don’t _smell_ like myrtles. Though, that might be a fragrance cantrip…”

“Myrtles are _wedding flowers,”_ Ron added from his side as Harry took them out. Harry reddened further at the insinuation. “Someone out there really digs you, looks like.”

“How do you know about wedding flowers anyway?”

“You think I don’t go to weddings? _Guess again, mate._ Mom’s a monster.”

Harry put the bouquet in the crook of his elbow and examined the box again, searching for a note of some sort. There was nothing like that, but there was a smaller, nondescript box inside.

Hermione made a sound of surprise. “It reminds me of matryoshka dolls.”

“What’s that-- _matyrshka doll?”_

Hermione sighed. “Just a Muggle toy, Ron.”

Harry, in the meantime, took the smaller box and opened it.

“Oh,” he intoned, blinking. “It’s a chocolate frog.”

“A _what?”_ Hermione cried. “Isn’t that a terrible gift to give someone when you’ve sent them flowers?”

Ron had started cackling without stop, however, and didn’t seem like he would stop anytime soon. Harry made a sour face at the scrutiny of their audience.

“I like it,” Harry said. “It’s a good idea. If I didn’t like the flowers at least I would eat the frog.”

_“If?_ You like the bloody myrtles then?” Ron repeated, still laughing. “This one’s a keeper, Harry! Look at it -- they’ve sent you a _chocolate frog._ You ought to marry them, so you can eat chocolate forever!”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh at me,” Harry said and sulked, ripping it open and taking a large bite.

The sweet aroma and the chocolate went well together, and Harry found himself enjoying the gift. He wondered who would send something like that when his eyes suddenly came across the card and he began choking.

Lord Voldemort’s severe face stared at him through the chocolate frog card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through writing Nagini I paused and screamed in _Feelings_ because _she's just so damn cute and I love her-_
> 
> (And also, embarrassingly, I realized that I have been using "The Vow of Silence" and "The Curse of Silence" interchangeably, which is wack. Sorry about that TvT But I've got practically no free time at all so I ain't gonna change it)
> 
> Okay, so, instead of dandelion seeds, there was "dust bunnies" there. Because I call those large flying seeds "dust bunnies". It was a weird moment when I realized dust bunnies were actually dust. (Since I took dust bunnies from Totoro the movie)
> 
> (Also, important notice: on July 14th, nearly four weeks later, I will be sitting an exam that might change my future. For this, I will be trying to stay as far away from fanfiction as possible, and I'm sorry to say that my update schedule will have to take a break. Nevertheless, I will use this time to plan the fic rather than write it and will study heavily for the exam. Wish me luck!)


	9. Nihil dicit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He says nothing."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back!
> 
> Here's a 6k chapter!!! We have... -checks papers- Harry talking with Gryffindors about young and handsome Tom Riddle, Voldemort having an existential crisis, Narcissa inducing that crisis a la Hannibal style, Snape placing tiny clues like the sneaky bastard he is, and... -checks paper again- ah yes, the gay. Well. This might as well happen lmao

_ Thursday, before that fateful Friday, Narcissa decided to strike where it hurt the most - the figurative “killing hit” to the blind spot that wouldn’t be seen until too late. _

_ “I don’t see you often around these parts, my Lord,” she spoke as she entered the garden’s heart, startling the man who stood listlessly. “Is something bothering you?” _

_ “No need to worry, dear,” the Dark Lord said. “Merely taking a break. A  _ **_much needed_ ** _ break, if I must be frank.” _

_ “So there  _ **_is_ ** _ an issue,” Narcissa pushed. She didn’t let his sour, scorning face throw her off. “I will not press, but an external view always lets people put matters into perspective. Do you believe you are all right without it?” _

_ “I don’t believe in love,” he cuts in, shutting her up, “I despise the thought. I have spent my formative years and the entirety of my life cursing its name… It should not affect me.” _

_ Narcissa waits for him to continue, but when he doesn’t, she understands that it’s her cue to talk. “But it does. Doesn’t it? Love always slithers by our hardest forts. What forts of yours has this love scaled, my Lord?” _

_ “You are rather infuriating right now, Narcissa,” the Dark Lord threatened, but she didn’t flinch. The Dark Lord wouldn’t punish her - not now. Not when he was at his most vulnerable and letting her see it, without any retaliation. He sighed and continued, “I can’t even intimidate you right now, can I? You see through me so easily.” _

_ “Claiming that would be arrogant of me,” Narcissa denied, “I think it is you who wishes me to know, my Lord. Is that correct?” _

_ “As correct as one can be. Come, let us walk. The night is pleasant.” _

_ He walked and she fell into step beside him, observing the quiet whispers of the garden - the sounds of crickets and night creatures, of the distant voices of fairies and humming flowers. Narcissa observed him with one eye, trying to discern whether he was torn over his addiction or over another problem. She discarded the latter thought as wishful thinking and wondered what was ailing him so. _

_ “You may speak,” the Dark Lord said, apparently noticing where her attention had wandered. “I would answer any question right now - that’s how you know my mind is addled by this wretched potion.” _

_ “You seem to be of sound mind right now,” Narcissa commented, seeing the man’s self-awareness about the effects of the potion. “I would’ve thought you would be more of a believer about the love that haunts you. Tell me, my Lord, do you believe in it? Do you fear its absence or its existence?” _

_ “Both,” he answered immediately, then shook his head and reworded his reply, “or perhaps neither. I don’t trust myself with anything right now. How I curse the decision I took to drink that cursed elixir! It’s in poor taste to admit to my mistakes, but I fervently wish that I hadn’t drunk it that night.” _

_ “But do you regret what you felt during these few months?” Narcissa redirected him to the question that mattered. If she was to change the course of this war, she would need to tread with effectivity in mind. Short, reflection-evoking queries and inspiring advice. That was what the Dark Lord needed right now, and she would give it to him. “Love is a burden to bear, but is it better without that burden? Some mages do prefer a life without love, but love is not without its goodness. Everyone needs some manner of light to make life livable, to derive pleasure from the road that is our stories. _

_ “My Lord,” she asked then, “are you afraid of losing that light?” _

_ The Dark Lord looked blanched, as if one had washed his skin down with greys and whites of the dead, his eyes wide like a child’s. Narcissa could imagine him asking like her little Draco had, ‘What does dying mean, Mother?’ _

_ “Cruel,” the Dark Lord blurted, making them both pause. “Such cruel words. You tear my heart right open, Narcissa, and you expect to leave without pain?” _

_ “My Lord,” she replied, a shiver arching up her spine yet knowing that there was hope. “Am I truly tormenting you?” _

_ “It hurts more than it leaves me breathless - or perhaps it does both,” the man murmured. He still emitted an innocence and an elderly gentleness, things that his image had never evoked before. Here was a man struggling with falling in love for the first time, and here she was - a cold, ruthless creature lecturing another monster on how to love. _

_ “Love is both agonizing and energizing,” she told him. “It perhaps brings more pain than is worth, but that is the beauty of love: Giving without receiving. Selfless affection - one that doesn’t require reciprocation. Even knowing that your beloved is happy and content is enough to satiate that hunger. The beast inside isn’t an enemy.” _

_ “My beast hungers more than is appropriate,” the Dark Lord said. His hand lunged at a stray rosebud, caressing it with unexpected fondness. “I wonder if I should send him a flower.” _

_ Narcissa didn’t know how to answer that. She saw that the conversation had derailed, so she righted herself again and spoke, with brevity, “Carpe diem.” _

_ The Dark Lord’s eyes turned back to her, hairless brows furrowed, looking unfairly bemused and helpless. She gave him a sociopath’s smile. The only one she knew how to form, for people outside of her family. Though she held sympathy for the Dark Lord, she couldn’t muster enough affection to create a genuine one for him. _

_ She wondered if the man saw it in her eyes what that smile meant to her. She hoped that he did. _

_ “I fear for myself,” he continued, as if the exchange had never happened. Narcissa allowed the new direction with grace. “I fear what I’ll miss once it’s gone. I can’t bear the thought.” _

_ “Life will have its way no matter what we do, sometimes,” she said. “I cannot help you in that regard, my Lord. But perhaps this new fear isn’t a new fear at all.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Most fears are often recycled,” she spoke. “The mind loves the familiar. The same thoughts, the same likes, the same peeves plague us every day. Keeping this in mind… and the fact that you’ve never fallen before… Is it not reasonable to say that this fear has its roots somewhere familiar?” _

_ “Familiar,” the Dark Lord repeated. His face had taken on a new expression, no less fearful. He seemed frozen now. “I suppose I might as well tell you. Do not let me kill you after this potion ends, Narcissa.” _

_ Narcissa felt a crushing chill overcome her, too quickly to prepare for. Her eyes found the Dark Lord’s grave ones, and she mouthed his words back to him, her mind blindsided by the blunt admission. _

_ “I would  _ **_kill_ ** _ you for knowing this if I were myself,” he warned. Merlin, the fact that he was  _ **_warning_ ** _ her - that took her by surprise too. “Do not let me go through with the act. Make your husband spirit you away. Go abroad if you can. Somewhere I won’t think to find you. Don’t let me know where. I-” He paused, as if choked, something clogging up his throat. “I need your help right now. I won’t let my future embarrassment prevent me from taking the decisions I need.” _

_ “Yes, my Lord,” she whispered, cowed. She still listened attentively, knowing that what she did right now could save her. Merlin help her, she prayed. _

_ “I was born in 1926,” the Dark Lord started, ripping that stray rose from its stalk. There were no thorns on Malfoy roses. The man took the bud to his nose, inhaling the aroma of sweetness. “I was born under a snowstorm, to Merope Gaunt, who died in childbirth after naming me after my Muggle father.” _

_ Narcissa took in a sharp breath. _

_ “He either didn’t know about me or deliberately abandoned my mother,” he continued. “I grew up loveless and forsaken by the very people who were supposed to love me. I wasn’t alone in my plight, of course, but many of the orphans had parents who couldn’t take care of them instead. They were left in the orphanage with the promise that  _ **_they would return._ ** _ ” He turned to gaze at her in idle coldness. “I didn’t have that promise, and for a few years, my childish self dreamed of a relative rescuing me from the dreary building. They would be rich, of course - it was a staple of an orphan’s dream parent. A beautiful visage, pockets so filled with money that every step they took, it would pour out. They would knock on the gates and ask, ‘I beg you, I am looking for my son.’ _

_ “In the end,” he said, a bit morose, “no one came. I grew out of my silly dreams and learnt to take care of myself. I learnt  _ **_magic,_ ** _ which was much more helpful than love could ever be. Magic was my savior in the end. Love didn’t give me a path to the answer - only hope; useless, baseless hope.” _

_ “You learnt how to live without love,” Narcissa agreed. “That’s all right. Not everyone is suited to it.” _

_ The Dark Lord glanced at her, his expression displaying a vague emotion. He breathed a chuckle then, seemingly relaxing. “I forgot how cold and candid you were, Narcissa. For a moment, I thought you would be spouting about the power and virtue of love.” _

_ “Pardon me, my Lord, but as you can see I’m neither a Hufflepuff nor Dumbledore,” she replied dryly, making him chuckle again. “I am aware that love isn’t a necessity, though it helps a lot. It is true that it gives baseless hopes and a craving, but it is also true that more than half the children that grow up without it, cannot survive.” _

_ “How so?” _

_ “Love - a softer, less intense love - is essential. The soul is sustained by a knowing of belonging in the world, of knowing that living on will be worth it. Infants who weren’t shown affection were more likely to die than those who were. Knowing that you did not have that assurance - I admit that I feel regret your mother wasn’t present in your life. Had she been, perhaps life would have been different.” _

_ The Dark Lord made a strange, wounded noise. Narcissa watched in alarm as he dropped the rose in his hands to clasp at his head, visibly shaking. _

_ “I don’t want to hear this,” he resisted. Narcissa schemed of calming him with a touch to the shoulder, but thought better of it. “I’m leaving the garden. Narcissa - tell me one last thing, and stop talking.” _

_ “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she tried to be truthful. “I’ve always wanted to ease your pain, my Lord. You always seem to be under the shadow of a great burden, potion or not - you seem more agonized when you aren’t distracted by love than not. Is love not beautiful, in its own way? Would an existence without it justify the loss of one with love?” _

_ “Why are you telling me this?” _

_ “For no reason but your own well being,” she tried to put it into easy words. “Love - platonic or otherwise - brings into mind someone other than us. It makes us want to see them in good health and sound mind. I don’t love you, but I do care for you. Is this what you feel for him?” _

_ The Dark Lord flinched but didn’t answer. She hadn’t expected him to. _

_ “Sometimes love passes,” she spoke with intuition, “it passes and doesn’t tell us. It leaves us fumbling in the dark for the light, unable to tell whether real is illusion. But the love  _ **_did_ ** _ happen - the loss of it doesn’t mean that it never existed.” She tried to find the right words, but true eloquence was eluding her right now. All she could do was try to evoke the right emotions, to let the Dark Lord carve his own way out through her guidance. “The loss of it - it doesn’t mean that it cannot happen again. If you love him truly, my Lord, you will be able to find that kindling by yourself, without the help of a potion. Whether you will want to rekindle it - that is completely up to you.” _

_ The Dark Lord stared at her with somber, beseeching eyes, and turned tail and strode out of the rose garden. Narcissa watched him with a worried yet relieved mind, knowing that at that moment, somehow, everything in the world was all right. _

_ \--- _

Hermione enchanted the flowers to never wither. When Harry looked at her in confusion, she blushed and murmured something about Lavender Brown and flower charms. Seamus Finnigan peeked over and gushed over his card.

“That’s limited edition!” he shouted. “The chocolate frogs have a new series - the Dark Wizard collection. I didn’t know they made one of You-Know-Who. Hey, Harry, is that really what he looks like?”

“Erm,” Harry stammered, leaning away at the sudden influx of people leaning in. “Well, yeah.”

“Wow, that’s… kind of scary _.  _ He looks like a skeleton. With  _ red eyes.” _

"Does he really have no nose? That must be weird, would breathing even work? Imagine if you had no nose, Harry - you'd push your glasses up… only for them to fall back down. Again and again."

"You-Know-Who  _ did  _ have a nose before," Ginny joined the conversation. "When he was handsome and young anyway."

_ "Handsome?  _ Gin, that's a _ terrorist  _ you're talking about," Ron said. Ginny rolled her eyes and threw her hands up, utterly exasperated.

"He  _ was  _ handsome," Harry backed her up, much to the other Gryffindors' interest. Harry didn't understand the appeal of talking about a pre-Dark Lord Voldemort, but he supposed people enjoyed strange things. 

"What did he look like?" Parvati Patil asked. Her eyes shone with way too much.

Harry shrugged. "Like I said - handsome. Rather normal? He had dark eyes, dark hair. He was a Prefect and Head Boy, and he has an award for special services for the school."

"Yes, we get it, he was good-looking and successful," Parvati cut in. "But  _ what did he look like?  _ As in, what  _ made  _ him handsome? Did he have a good nose? Good bone structure? Spill the tea, Harry."

"Yeah, Harry," Ginny said, grinning predatorily. "Spill the tea."

"There isn't much to tell, guys. He had nice… cheekbones? His hair kind of curled over his eye, but otherwise it was groomed well. Also, I guess he had a long, straight nose? It's kind of a shame that he lost it. Dark eyes, as I said. Long eyelashes?" He was kind of out of things to say now, because there was nothing in particular that made Tom Riddle especially striking. Rather, it was the culmination of all the little parts creating a whole and balanced structure.  _ Thus,  _ there was no way he could describe it.

"Wow, all right,  _ cheekbones,"  _ Lavender gasped from where she sat with Parvati, completely subsided in her daydream. "Harry, that's not a snake man - that's a  _ hottie." _

He choked,  _ again.  _ Ron helpfully stroked his back while Hermione muttered under her breath about  _ 'horny Gryffindors and their man hunger'. _

"Hey, I have a man hunger too," Seamus protested, but he was mostly ignored. Lavender and Parvati cooed at his plight and took him under their wing, asking about which men he hungered for.

"I'm going to pretend this isn't happening," Harry told Ron, who was stifling his guffaws. "I mean it. You are all  _ crazy,  _ you Gryffindors."

"Says the Gryffindor."

"I was a  _ Hat-stall." _

"Said the  _ Gryffindor." _

Harry gave up and threw his hands into the air.

At the end of breakfast, Harry stared at the myrtles a bit and tucked them in his bag. He tried not to let them get crushed under the books, so he had positioned the blooms so that they would see the air. He ran to Defense while munching on the chocolate frog, not minding the sniggers from nearby Slytherins.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape greeted caustically as he entered, cursing that he was so late. “I suppose you expect me to ignore your tardiness.”

Harry didn’t speak as he slid into his seat, but a cautious glance showed him that Snape was waiting for an answer. “No, sir. Not at all.”

“Then you  _ do  _ know that coming in late is an offense?”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitched. “I’m not  _ that  _ stupid, sir.”

“Well, at least you are aware of your flaws, Mr. Potter,” Snape shot back, glaring right back at him. Harry gritted his teeth against the urge to snap back. The professor, seeing that he had won the row, turned back to the class. “Will someone repeat what I just said, before our  _ Chosen One  _ came in? Five points from Gryffindor, by the way.”

“The, um,” a girl from the back started. “The ethics of mind-altering substances, sir?”

Back on track, Snape continued from where he had left off quite easily. Harry listened with half an ear to the lecture on Veritaserum and love potions and other such mixtures, listing their effects on the mind and a wizard’s free will while he tuned out nearly half of it. His mind was full to the brim with the mysterious gift from that hulking raven, and the curious little card shoved in his back pocket. 

“Potter,” Snape called on him. Harry flinched. “Name one use of mild love potions when used on a suspect.”

“Is this Auror class?” Harry replied without thinking. Seeing Snape’s venomous look, he backtracked and said, “Err, well, I guess you could get the - um,  _ suspect  _ to tell you the truth with it? Since they would be more willing to talk to you?”

“A barely acceptable answer. Will someone tell me what he got incorrect?”

Lackery Hallewin from Slytherin raised his hand. Harry vaguely remembered him from the last Quidditch match, as one of the spare Chasers. “Love potions categorized as  _ mild  _ aren’t strong enough to affect the suspect enough to garner a confession of the crime, if they are guilty. If innocent, they are more likely to avoid the questions than deny involvement, so they aren’t very effective during interviews.”

“A well-rounded explanation - are you all writing this down?  _ Do so.  _ I will be testing you on these…  _ very soon.” _

An echo of groans and grumbling rose in the classroom, continued by quills scratching on papers and a low murmur of whispers as knowledge traveled back and forth between students. Harry could barely focus on it all - he shook himself awake and frowned at the paper in front of him, scribbling some notes so that he didn’t regret it afterward.

“You’re distracted, Potter,” Hallewin whispered behind him. Harry’s head snapped up, wondering if the Slytherin had inched closer to his seat on purpose. “Is it because of that raven? You look positively charmed by those flowers.”

“Piss off,” Harry told him, scowling. Hallewin grinned.

“Are you going to carry them around all day? Maybe you’ll even wear the bride’s gown to the wedding, carrying your bouquet to the altar.”

“I said,” he repeated, growling,  _ “fuck off.” _

Hallewin flipped him off and scooted away snickering, leaving Harry fuming and clenching his fists. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling his anger with a sudden breath.

When the lesson ended, Harry set out to find Hermione against his better judgement. He felt unreasonably irritated by the giggling and pointing Slytherins around and thought that they might have prepared this beforehand.

“Hermione,” Harry called out. He had found her on a bench, reading a book with a pout on her lips. “Could you help me a bit?”

“Oh?” she asked, raising her head. “Sure? What do you need, Harry?”

“Do you know a spell to make the - um,  _ the flowers  _ \- invisible? It’s been a bit annoying, this last hour.”

Hermione, true to her nature, pulled out her wand and narrowed her eyes, muttering something under her breath. She looked back up and told him, “I’ve been studying the Disillusionment Charm since that incident with Malfoy. It’s a little hard to grasp, but I think I’ve got it.”

Harry nodded and showed her the myrtles. “Go for it. Can’t lose anything right now.”

She waved her wand around intricately for a few moments, held it aloft, then waved it again, chanting an incantation repeatedly. Harry felt an odd energy around the flowers, then sensed that feeling sinking into the blooms and the stalks, making them disappear from view entirely.

“If you move them too fast, the enchantment will blur,” Hermione warned him, “but I think this will hold well. Disillusionment works better with small objects in general.”

“Thank you,” Harry spoke with genuine relief. “You’re brilliant, Hermione. I need to get you a new quill sometime.”

“Don’t mention it. Now go! You don’t want to be late for class!”

Harry ran to the sixth floor and almost went in late. McGonagall took pity on him and let him enter without point loss. 

The rest of the day wasn’t much better, but the “absence” of the flowers helped a bit. The Slytherins instead jeered about how he had trashed his gift because of a few teasing remarks, but he didn’t respond to the taunts. Conversely, some people whom he knew from the Defense Association came to his rescue and tore into them viciously, sending the bullies going away in a huff. Harry tried to dissuade a lot of them from going after them with wands out, citing that it wasn’t as if they were doing any real harm to him.

“You have to show those bastards that you won’t let this  _ lie,  _ Harry,” Dean Thomas told him passionately. “I know these types. They’ll push until they can’t and then they’ll worm their way out too!”

“I’m good, thanks,” he told him wryly. “Anyway, thank you for the help. When I hear them I just get too angry to act.”

“Anytime, mate. See you in double Charms.”

Double Charms went better than Transfiguration and Potions. Flitwick had introduced a new charm to write an essay on, so not even the Slytherins had been able to find a moment to taunt him. Harry was glad.

At the end of dinner, he received a letter from Dumbledore, urging him to meet him before curfew. Harry told his friends that he would be late and headed up the stairs to the Headmaster’s office.

The gargoyle stood glaring at him as Harry sheepishly unfolded the letter, straightening the creases to read out the password - which turned out to be blood pops. As soon as he uttered the words, the statue moved aside with a grinding creak and a voice called out from the upstairs, "Come in! I've been expecting you!"

Throwing a wary glance at the gargoyle's stony gaze, Harry clutched the banister as he climbed the staircase, feeling the temperature drop with each step upward.

_ There it was! _ The door to the office was left ajar, a thin thread of light streaming into the hall. Harry nudged it a bit and the door opened wide.

“Harry,” Dumbledore acknowledged, nodding. Harry nodded back as he entered. “I trust you didn’t encounter trouble on the way?”

“No, sir.”

“Good, good.” The man waved a hand at the cushion. “Come and sit. Would you like a lemon drop?”

“Um,” Harry mumbled, reaching for one. “Sure. May I ask what this is about?”

“Yes, straight to the matter. I wanted to warn you that leaving the castle might not be a good idea for the…” Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully. “Let’s say, the next three weeks.”

_ “Three  _ weeks?” Harry repeated through the taste of lemon enveloping his mouth, confused. “But, sir…  _ why?  _ Is it - Is it Voldemort? He hasn’t sent me any visions recently. Do you think it’s connected?”

“Might be,” Dumbledore said cryptically. “The truth is that the world outside Hogwarts suddenly became much more dangerous. I would rather you stay inside the castle for that duration, while I make sure that the danger has passed away. Hogsmeade weekends included.”

“Of course,” he agreed, “then I won’t. But-” The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. He swallowed the candy. “-only me? Is there a Death Eater on the loose? Assuming they aren’t all targeting me, that is.”

“One could say that just by being the child of the prophecy, you would be in grave danger anywhere you go,” the headmaster told him, “but that isn’t necessarily true. Voldemort wishes you dead  _ by his own hands,  _ so his followers will not harm you fatally. We have seen this trend repeat throughout the years, where he will deny his Death Eaters’ help when confronting you. I have reason to believe that is  _ one  _ thing we can count on Voldemort to do again and again without any surprises.

“So,  _ no,  _ I do not believe you have anything to fear from Death Eaters - aside from the obvious horror scenarios. This recent danger is a result of… let’s say, a mistake made by one of my acquaintances. I will try to prevent any incidents from occurring, but you must stay in the castle for the time being.”

_ So basically, no answers, as usual,  _ Harry thought. He had known that fishing for information  _ from Dumbledore  _ had been a futile effort. “I understand, sir. May I leave now?”

“Of course, of course. Take care, my boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

It was only after he had brushed his teeth and worn his pajamas that Harry remembered the flowers in his bag, invisible as they were.

Stealthily, without waking the others - it was a late hour - Harry opened the flap of his bag and took them out, gazing perturbedly at the space where he could feel the waxy stalks and the soft petals, but couldn’t see them. There were no thorns, gauging by the sensations - there were some strange lumps that he could guess were parts where another bud of myrtle; it had been trying to grow, but had been cut out. Harry brought it closer to his nose and sniffed, sighing at the eternal fragrance of butter, vanilla, and a soft tang of the flowers’ original scent: Sweet and delicate. It reminded him of a dream he had once, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he saw then.

He put the flowers aside on the mattress and took out his wand, uttering a  _ Finite  _ at the small bouquet. The enchantment melted out of the flowers like water flowing around rocks, leaving behind shimmering blooms.

_ They look rather pretty,  _ he thought to himself, feeling oddly embarrassed by it.  _ I’m being stupid. _

Of course he would find flowers pretty - he had unironically spent his whole life tending to the Dursleys’ garden. It was hard not to think flowers weren’t beautiful. His insecurity probably stemmed from Uncle Vernon’s pudgy voice muttering out,  _ ‘Flowers are for women, Dudders, not for burly men.’ _

Well, it was a good thing that Harry wasn’t very burly, wasn’t it? He huffed and lay on the bed, taking extra caution to not crush the flowers, and took the bouquet in his hands, raising it above his head.

The moonlight was streaming through the window. On the blossoms, it painted them a glittering white, like a unicorn’s coat in the darkness. The petals reached outward, displaying the thin, thread-like antennas at the centers. They, too, shone like the sliver-spun chain of an expensive jewelry, those that his aunt used to display in their fancy boxes.

_ Reminds me of fairies,  _ Harry thought, likening their gentle look to the creatures from the storybooks. He raised his hand to touch the antennas. They were softer than he had thought, like silky hairs.

Disturbed by the force of his fingers, the antennas fell down - onto his surprised face and his pillow. He looked down to see them spread on his sheets. Something in him told him that they were like those scenes in movies, where a character would decorate the bed with rose petals. He flushed and wringed that image out, telling himself that this wasn’t as tasteless as that.

Regardless of his affinity to flowers and the sort, Harry had to sleep at some point on a preferably clean bed, so he tidied up the mattress and vanished the fallen antennas, falling asleep soon after. Come morning, he would remember next to nothing about his dream, which made him feel disappointed.

***

“So Dumbledore says you can’t go?” Ron asked, munching on his honey-covered, fruit-laden waffles. Harry stared at his friend’s breakfast in a sort of awe, wondering how an appetite such as Ron’s existed, that it would drive him to eat this sugary monstrosity during the early hours of morning.

“Yeah,” he said, shaking himself free of his weird thoughts. “So, sorry about any future plans.”

“But… the cloak? Don’t tell me you’ve lost it?”

“Of course not - but even though Dumbledore likes to keep secrets, I trust him to warn me for the really dangerous stuff.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, putting a spoon of cereal in her mouth.

“The end-of-the-year events don’t count.”

“Afraid they  _ do,  _ mate,” Ron said. “Otherwise there isn’t really much danger for Dumbledore to protect you from. Hell, warning you about the end-of-the-year stuff would  _ actually _ be a great improvement. Sometimes I wonder if Dumbledore really cares about You-Know-Who offing you.”

“Ron,  _ of course  _ Dumbledore cares about that,” Hermione snapped, making Ron dig into his meal as an attempt to disguise his wincing. Harry disguised his own expression behind a glass of milk, sipping gently. “So, Harry, are the flowers still good? Lavender asked me about them.”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. They’re good. She was the one who found the charm, right? Give her my thanks.”

“It’s no trouble,” Hermione said diplomatically, “but there is also the fact that  _ we don’t know who sent that bird-” _

“The raven,” Ron cut in matter-of-factly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, well,  _ the raven.  _ Merlin, is this Edgar Allen Poe? I still say you put too much stock into that superstition, Ron.”

_ “No  _ one ever uses ravens as delivery birds,” he informed them. Harry leaned in with curiosity. He always enjoyed the wizarding trivia Ron dropped. “You know who used ravens?  _ Morgana le Fay. Paracelsus. Salazar Slytherin.  _ There is a  _ reason  _ these guys had ravens going around, making errands for them.”

“I thought Paracelsus was a healer?” Harry asked, because he remembered him from his chocolate frog card. He looked like a grim, silent man who would rather disappear from civilization than be friendly to anyone; so it had been surprising to know he was a healer.

Ron nodded. “Yeah, but he was a Parselmouth. Even then, they were a bit feared for their power. Anyway - the ravens are sort of a statement, like how you might say,  _ ‘This is my brand.’  _ These guys wanted others to know that they brought misery and destruction everywhere they went. It’s kind of like a power move and a reminder at the same time.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Harry told him seriously, “but please continue.”

“Eh, there isn’t much more to say to be honest. Essentially, you should stay away from ravens. Every wizard worth his salt knows that they should leave those alone.”

That marked the end of the conversation. There was a tense silence in their bubble, knowing what Ron was saying without saying, but Hermione diffused the tension with a well-placed information bombardment.

“Did you know that ravens are  _ dead  _ smart? They have cognitive abilities on par with a human, or great apes. They are also known for pranks and their tricks on wolves and foxes.”

“Mildly interesting,” Ron grumbled. “I’d still rather they stayed away from me and you two though.”

“Don’t worry, Ron,” Harry snorted, “I doubt we will see the raven that often. It was probably a fluke.”

“A fluke with a  _ chocolate frog?  _ If some  _ shady  _ wizard was sending flowers to his lady, I don’t think he would have sent a chocolate frog with it.”

“A man?” Hermione asked. “Are you sure?”

Ron shrugged. “I mean, it’s the most likely option. Witches are traditional. I’ve never seen Mom send Dad a flower.”

“Wait,” Harry said and trailed off. “I mean, does that mean-?”

“That a dark wizard sent you flowers and chocolate?” Ron looked equally conflicted now. “Ah, yeah. That’s… not a very nice thought, is it?”

“Not really. But - what I meant was that if it’s a man…”

“And?” Ron spoke, but seemed to understand the implication right after. His eyes went wide. “Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Right, I forgot you were oblivious.”

_ “Hey.” _

“Right, sorry. No more teasing. So-” Ron cleared his throat. He seemed a bit awkward. “You know that there are some men who are attracted to men? And some women who like women?”

“Um, yeah,” Harry said, wishing they would do this somewhere else, even though he knew that the Muffliato Charm would prevent eavesdroppers. “Uncle Vernon mentioned them.”

“Not in a good light, I think,” Hermione said. “So listen to him, Harry.”

Ron continued, “So, the thing is, you’re very oblivious, Harry. Seamus is gay.”

Harry blinked, remembering his roommate mentioning something about  _ ‘man hunger’  _ yesterday. “Oh. Right. That’s not surprising though.”

“I’m a lesbian,” Hermione released with a sudden breath, tensing and making them turn to her in shock. “I - I just wanted to say it and… I wanted you to know. I thought this might be a good time to say it. And… you know…”

It was odd to see Hermione so tongue-tied, but Harry didn’t really feel weird about it. Knowing that Hermione preferred girls was only  _ a bit  _ strange. But who said strange was bad? (The Dursleys didn’t count. They wouldn’t count, not in a million years.) “That’s okay? I mean, we’re talking about Seamus being gay, and a wizard sending me flowers…”

“There are a whole lot of people in our year who aren’t straight,” Ron said. He opened his hand and began to fold his fingers. “Hannah Abbott is a lesbian too, then Susan Bones is bisexual - that is, preferring both men and women - oh, and Zacharias Smith.”

_ “Smith  _ isn’t straight?”

“Mate, Smith is the  _ gayest  _ bloke I’ve ever seen.” He paused. “Aside from Charlie, but he’s attracted to anyone, regardless of gender. Anyway, there is Marietta Edgecomb-” Hermione made a sour face. “-who is a lesbian and crushing on Cho Chang, and I know because she told me, then there are Padma Patil and Lavender Brown who are bisexual.”

“How do you know so much about everyone’s - um - preference?” Harry asked him, his mind swimming in the information onslaught. He felt a bit as though a massive floodgate had been opened and buried him under tonnes of water. “You don’t talk to them much. I mean, I know about Lavender, but…”

“She kind of introduced me to her friends,” he told them. “When I mentioned that some in our family aren’t straight, I think everyone kind of used me as a - ahem - a walking talking journal. I’m very charismatic.”

“I think what happened was that Ron was a stranger who didn’t have connections to people  _ they  _ knew,” Hermione analysed, which made Ron pout. “So they felt safe opening up to him.”

“Makes sense,” Harry said. “And, well, I don’t know if I like men. I don’t even know if I like girls much… Could last year’s incident with Cho be about… you know?”

“About you not knowing your orientation?” Ron asked wryly. “Could be. I wouldn’t count on that though. That’s not to say doing some reflecting on it  _ won’t  _ help…”

“Guys,” Hermione spoke with a sudden urgency. “I think we missed the cue for the lesson.”

There was a sudden quiet, then the three scrambled up and frantically packed up, running to class like the hounds of hell were nipping at their heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :33
> 
> Who knows whether Voldie will be in the next chapter? I don't :P


	10. In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We enter the circle at night and are consumed by fire. (A palindrome said to describe the behavior of moths.)_

Currently, Narcissa Malfoy - the third daughter of the side branch of the House of Black, the mother of the Malfoy scion, certified Mind Healer, Healer dropout and the Woman Who Out Drank Bob Ogden (It was a legitimate title) - was holding a portkey that would activate in thirty seconds.

The destination was Australia, the one place that was far enough from the Dark Lord. She wouldn’t have chosen this place, but Lucius had seemed awfully sure that it was the perfect place. Now, Narcissa normally wouldn’t entertain her husband’s wishes - certainly not during a life and death crisis - but in this instance, she trusted that Lucius cared for her enough to do a good job.

_ Ten seconds.  _ She dearly hoped that the Dark Lord cured himself, but there were also the ramifications of him switching back to how he was, that monster who would dare to torment her son-

In a burst of color, insufferable ringing and high speed, Narcissa landed on her two feet with grace she hadn’t had as a child. She took a moment to breathe and reorient herself however, as she still felt the tell-tale nausea of magical transportation.

Lucius had made arrangements with a small hotel to house her for the foreseeable future, promising to pay his own weight in gold if they promised to keep this deal a secret. As Lucius was rather heavy - she didn’t mind - that was indeed a hefty sum. Narcissa would have protested, seeing as an obscure establishment wouldn’t be able to handle an attack by the Dark Lord, but she was capable of escaping quickly - and seeing Lucius serious and teary eyed had amused her a great deal, so she had let it go on.

“Mrs Malfoy,” the owner greeted, looking tense and skin tight around his mouth. She wondered if he hadn’t wanted to accept the offer, but had anyway - financial troubles? Greed? In any case, he had accepted and he now had to deal with her.

Well, not exactly.

“I have no intention of staying the night here,” she reassured him, knowing his worries. “You can relax. I suspect my husband put too much pressure on you?”

The man - ah, she didn’t even know his name - laughed, a hiccuping and nervous sound. “You could say that. But, well, I should tell you the rules of the hotel anyway.” With that he began a long, gruelling yet stammered list of regulations, some of them seeming random and effective only on the surface. Narcissa quickly surmised that the establishment wasn’t a formal one at all, but rather one used by the surrounding neighborhood mages and the relatives or friends of the regulars. The owner himself didn’t seem to be very well-mannered, but that hardly bothered her. She wouldn’t be staying the night in such a…  _ crowded  _ place. Narcissa couldn’t stand strangers.

“What is that noise?” she asked suddenly, noticing a high-pitched buzzing in the walls. The owner blinked and looked around, frowning confusedly.

_ Oh,  _ Narcissa realized,  _ I know this sound- _

And with a loud, relieving  _ pop,  _ her house elf Whimsy appeared, looking distraught with dark circles under her eyes. “Mistress must come back home!” she cried, clutching Narcissa’s cashmere robes. On a normal occasion, she would have extracted her hand firmly, but this was quite the odd occurrence.

“What’s the matter?” she asked instead, narrowing her eyes at the worn down silhouette of the creature’s body. “Is it the Dark Lord? Has he ordered you to bring me back?”

Surely the man knew that house-elves couldn’t side-along with wizards over continental distances? It would induce - at the  _ very least -  _ an aneurysm, a stroke or a heart attack, if not cause her death.

Whimsy shook her head, wailing with a cracking sob. “No, Mistress! Mr Dark Lord is ordering us away, locking himself in! Whimsy couldn’t serve breakfast to Mistress' guest! And- Mr Dark Lord doesn’t let  _ any  _ elves in!”

_...Truly? _

“Has he been angry, Whimsy?” Narcissa asked, keeping her voice tempered and calm, yet stern. It wouldn’t do being lax with these annoying creatures. “Are you and your family hurt?”

“Whimsy and Poppy and Divvy isn’t!” she exclaimed. “But Mr Dark Lord - he hasn’t been eating! Oh, what would Whimsy’s great grandmother think, letting wizards starve? Whimsy should be caned!”

“Whimsy should be silent,” Narcissa snapped, making the elf quiet down. She could see Whimsy pinching her forearm behind her back, even though she had straightened up and hid it under her pillowcase. “Whimsy, can you take me to the Gringotts branch of Australia?”

She could see the hesitation and the calculations play out in the elf’s head, trying to balance her need to protect her owner and the need to fulfill an order. “Whimsy can,” she said, hesitant, “but Whimsy shouldn’t.”

“How much damage would that cause me?”

“...Mistress could-” She visibly swallowed, a small, close-mouthed whine escaping her. “-could get a bleeding inside, a bit, the land is too big. Then… Mistress could maybe faint. Maybe.”

The odds weren’t great, but Narcissa had the skills necessary to deal with those conditions swiftly. She still retained her knowledge of healing spells after all.

“Wait in the hallway,” she ordered the elf. After the expected  _ pop,  _ Narcissa turned back to the befuddled owner, and said, “It seems like I must get going soon. I apologize for the trouble.”

“No - No problem,” the man stuttered, eyes darting around nervously. He seemed much more animated now, and his voice had risen a pitch. “What about - the money?”

Narcissa supposed Lucius could have at least promised less for the transaction. “I reckon a quarter of the original amount will suffice.” Lucius and his weight - Narcissa should get the man on a Healer-approved potions regimen. She might be able to carry him over the threshold again, like she used to do as a newlywed.

“Y-Yes, of course.” She was graced with a clumsy bow.

Immediately afterward, Narcissa met Whimsy out of the room and grabbed the elf’s arm tight, ordering for the Australian Gringotts Branch. Whisked away abruptly, she barely felt the trauma to her organs before they were deposited onto the bronze marble floor, the chandelier lights too bright to her suddenly dizzied body.

“Mistress! Oh noes, oh noes, Whimsy is sorry! Whimsy will help-”

Narcissa held up a shaking hand to stop her, gathering herself long enough to spit out the blood gurgling behind her throat -- she remembered the spell for general healing and recalled the maneuver, which was all she needed to get back to tip-top shape.

A whispered chant and several anti-clockwise wand movements after, she was no dizzier than she had been after the Portkey, aside from some sluggishness from the brief but gruelling experience.

“Now,” she spoke, not minding the spectacle she had caused in the middle of the room. “Whimsy, lead me to an International Teleportation official.”

***

Though the goblins weren’t the kindest of folks, they were polite and efficient. Narcissa was able to get access to an enhanced Floo connection all the way from here to the British Gringotts Branch, provided that she paid for it directly afterward.

Once all the unpleasantries were done with, she was finally at home, greeting a few colleagues visiting the Manor for terrorist business.

And up, up toward the top floor, where the Dark Lord’s chambers were -- where Whimsy had informed her that he had locked himself in. Narcissa crept up the stairs with the determination and will of a seasoned mother and fighter, having faced challenges even greater than rousing the darkest wizard ever from his slumber.

The door stood in front of her, wreathed in potent, feverish magic. She lay a hand upon the hardwood and felt the sensation of the emotions, the sharp-faced shame and the hot rage burning against her palm.

Imbuing her voice with the authority of motherhood, Narcissa called out, willing the sound to travel through, “My Lord. I have come for you.”

_ “Leave.” _

Ah -- he was being stubborn then.

Very well; she would respond accordingly.

“I have weathered my son’s temper tantrums, Bella’s endless screams and my husband’s most annoying ramblings -- do  _ not  _ test my resolve.”

_ “Do you wish to die, Narcissa?” _

“My Lord, it is  _ you  _ who wishes for this protective cover. If you must punish me, you must come out and confront your distress.”

For moments, there was no reply, and Narcissa began to fear that she had provoked more than a round of the  _ Cruciatus  _ \-- however, exactly that second, the door’s lock clicked open and moved ajar to let her in.

She held the knob warily. Seeing no ill effects, she waded further and entered the room.

“You must think me so  _ pathetic  _ now,” the Dark Lord spoke, voice muffled by the blanket covering him from head to toe. “Draped in my sheets, unable to even hold a wand against  _ my own follower.  _ I don’t wish to hurt you right now.”

“Only right now?” Narcissa asked, a response mixed with humor. “Am I so insignificant?”

“Hush, girl.”

The man was indeed under heaps of blankets, resembling a…  _ roll  _ more than anything. Narcissa felt sort of  _ surreal  _ just gazing upon the view.

“My house-elf reports to me that you haven’t even left your room today,” she said. “She was most distressed by your actions. Is there a problem?”

_ “Is there a problem,  _ she asks,” he muttered, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then you must come down to breakfast. Food always helps.”

When no answer rose from the blanket roll, Narcissa sighed and walked closer, approaching the covered form of her master. “My Lord, please. This is childish -- you’re going to starve yourself.”

“Then let me. I’ll resurrect myself again.”

“My Lord--”

“I  _ know,”  _ he stressed on the word, releasing a furious snarl. With one swoop, the blankets were dislodged and flying to the other side of the bed, leaving behind the Dark Lord’s tall, pale body shrouded in a black robe, his fearsome snake wrapped around him in a parody of vines along the bark of a birch tree. “I  _ know  _ how childish this is. I  _ loathe  _ how childish this is. Yet I can’t -- I can’t  _ bear it;  _ you wouldn’t believe the sheer  _ embarrassment  _ of--”

He paused, and seemingly couldn’t speak anymore. Words eluded him and he sat on the mattress like a chided child, silently fuming yet unwilling to utter a whisper.

Narcissa thought that it might be her cue to speak now. “Do you feel any after-effects?”

“Have a guess.”

“I require explicit answers, please. This isn’t the time.”

“I do,” the Dark Lord gritted out, red eyes blazing. “You will speak to me respectfully, or Merlin help me, Narcissa, I  _ will  _ torture you regardless of what I feel about it--”

“Any leftover nausea?” Narcissa smoothly took over, focusing wholly on the procedure. At the answering mutter of  _ no,  _ she continued, “Thirst, prickles on the skin or any feelings of pain inside your body?”

“I’ve been -- feeling an ache.”

She knelt by the bedside, ready to carefully inspect him. “Where? Please show me.”

His long, spidery fingers traced an area on his chest, right above the sternum. “Here.” It moved down to the stomach. “Then here.” Lastly, he merely pushed against the place between those points, and said, “Then inside, deep inside -- it feels horrible. I need a pain relief potion.”

“I’ll inform the elf directly after,” Narcissa promised, her hands moving over those spots, releasing magic from her fingertips. The spell penetrated into the flesh and spread around in the deep tissue, searching for a stressor. The Dark Lord hissed sharply but let her continue, showing more sense than he would have shown months ago. Narcissa had high hopes for him.

Then the magic returned to her, eager as pygmy puffs, and showed her a series of diagrams that would make sense only to her.

_ This mark,  _ she thought,  _ it looks more like a plus than a cross… I wonder-- _

She apparently couldn’t prevent her lips from twitching, because the Dark Lord saw her face and asked, “What makes you laugh? Am I over-exaggerating?” 

“Not quite,” she said, gathering herself and straightening up. “I suppose it  _ would  _ be quite the odd sensation to someone like you, my Lord, who is unfamiliar with these sorts of aches.”

“Does everyone have them?”

“I believe most do -- they are widely called  _ emotions,”  _ she replied with a tinge of amusement, pushing her wand into the holster. The man flinched, brows furrowing, and stared blankly into the distant wall, as if burdened by some great problem -- she guessed he  _ was  _ burdened, knowing him to be a mostly apathetic person.

“Emotions,” he said, disbelieving. “That’s what’s hurting me?  _ Ridiculous.  _ I thought they were supposed to be enjoyable.” He went quiet. “Aren’t they?”

“They are, but I have found that a sudden influx can hurt if you aren’t used to it.” That had been her first reaction, after all. It had also helped that she had had some experience with  _ feeling  _ before the sudden flood of it.

The Lord hummed thoughtfully, touching where he presumably felt the ache. “It hurts. I didn’t think it would… I’ve been feeling things all these weeks -- why does it hurt now? Now that it’s gone?”

“Perhaps the potion stabilized the worst of the ache? This might be the first instance in which you are on your own, without help from the potion.” The other encounters coming to her mind, she asked, “Did it not feel overwhelming when the potion left? You were left vulnerable and in pain, but now you are able to weather it without agony.”

“You are right,” he answered, sounding surprised. His snake -- which had unwound from his torso prior to the sudden diagnosis -- wrapped around him again, as if wanting to warm its master up. 

Narcissa stepped back and observed them both with curious eyes. The snake had been accompanying the Dark Lord often these past months, and now she saw that they truly cared for each other in a way that ordinary mages wouldn’t -- not for their pets. Nagini was cuddly and affectionate and the Dark Lord encouraged it with his own petting, caressing the snake’s neck.

“I’ll head down to breakfast,” the man told her graciously. “Let me get prepared.”

“Of course. Thank you for humoring me, my lord.”

He sighed. “Of course. Thank  _ you  _ for your services, dear.”

Narcissa exited the chambers with a bow, and a deep-seated feeling of having switched realities. Where the world had been dark and hopeless before, now she saw the bright light of the morning and the flowers of the garden, listening to the vocals of the birds streaming through the open window.

It was a good day.

She was contemplating sending a letter to her husband of the news, when suddenly she heard a loud  _ thunk  _ from the room and a brief silence.

Then, hysterical screeching.

_ “THAT CAN’T BE ME, I LOOK  _ **_GHASTLY!_ ** _ NARCISSA, COME BACK--” _

Ah, yes, the atrocious sound of work calling her back.

***

“My Lord, are you telling me that you never looked in a mirror since your resurrection?”

“Why would I?! I don’t  _ need  _ to use the bathroom facilities -- this body is just a golem! I hadn’t even gone into the room since I arrived. Oh  _ Merlin, why now?  _ I’ve completely embarrassed myself! I walked through throngs of Death Eaters and thought myself beautiful, but instead I was the ugliest monster around, prancing about like a dirty peacock! I changed my mind, Narcissa, feeling doesn’t hurt -- it  _ completely decimates my sense of self worth.  _ Help me recover it--”

“How? Should I bring my cosmetic potions? I have some products that might help--”

_ “No,  _ are you  _ out of your mind?  _ Who knows how they’ll interact with this hideous face?! I would rather be stuck with this visage then try that route--”

“Then,” Narcissa tried to return some semblance of order to the conversation, “would it help if I called for my husband? He has much more experience in makeup than I do, and Bella might be able to help as well--”

“It doesn’t matter,” the Dark Lord spoke morosely, losing his disgusted fervor and slumping into a high backed sofa. His snake hissed about around him, winding around his wrist in a show of affection. The man scratched under its chin absentmindedly. “It doesn’t matter, because no one will ever love me anyway. Not even the ugliest creature would like this--” He paused and gestured to his whole self with a careless hand motion. “This. All of this. I am pathetic.”

“Why would you care-- oh.” It was the worst time to remember the Lord’s most recent issue, the subject of the love potion. “My Lord, would he really care about what you look like?”

“He doesn’t care either way,” he said. “Because he’s a  _ sixteen-year-old boy,  _ prophesied to destroy me or die by my hand. I rather doubt he would like me even if I was a handsome fellow.”

“...Harry  _ Potter?”  _ Narcissa asked, faintly believing what she had just heard. “As in, the boy who we were chasing through the Ministry last summer--”

_ “Yes,  _ that Harry Potter. Merlin,  _ do we know any other Harry Potters?  _ Get your act back together, Narcissa.”

“Yes, ahem--” Time to move on to practical solutions. “I’ll need to call Bella.”

“What? No, she shouldn't see--”

“My Lord, she’s been singing your praises all year, ever since your return. If anyone can help you,  _ it’s her.  _ Please, I only ask for your trust.”

He sat silent, looking as hesitant as a Mandrake leaving its pot. In the end, he seemed to cave in and reclined back, gentling the bridge of his “nose”. “Very well. Call her then. See if I care.”

_ It’s like he’s reverted to a teenager,  _ Narcissa thought in the privacy of her mind, aghast at the newly reformed Dark Lord.  _ Dear Merlin, what’s going to happen to the Dark Side now? Dismantlement? Or a reform, just like with our leader? _

Nonetheless, she pressed on her Dark Mark through her robes and wished for the best, whatever that may be.

_ Merlin help us all -- if I end up having to raise another son I’ll riot. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!! While on the road to visit my relatives, my period combined with my unfortunate habit of dehydration caused me to land in the emergency room -- I had five bags IV-ed into me and luckily, I'm good now. (Anyway, this is your yearly reminder to drink water each time you remember you haven't, and to sleep on time when you see that the hour is late. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES -- DON'T BE LİKE ME)


	11. Fiat lux.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Let there be light._

On the 12th of January, Severus Snape received an urgent firecall.

The ward set around his fireplace had been enchanted to reach out and notify him immediately about any calls. As there were few whom he gave the password of his address to, it was a simple matter of rising from his seat and leaving the Great Hall, treading the long corridors to his rooms, locking the door behind him and shrugging off his brewing robes. He had left his gloves at the laboratory-- well, no matter. 

He approached the fireplace and dismissed the notification, opening the connection and flinching at the unexpected sight.

“Narcissa,” he greeted, surprised and secretly worried. Had the Dark Lord finally acted? “Speak.”

“I need your help,” she started, sounding alarmed and harried. Worse, her face showed it. _That_ was even more worrying.

He hummed in affirmative and said, “Of course.”

“Thank you. Please, suspend your disbelief for now, but I need some potions with… odd uses.”

“...Of course. Go on.”

“Firstly, a facial redefiner, if you have some on hand,” she listed. “Secondly, beauty enhancers for each facial feature you can think of. That means _everything--_ eyelashes, brows, nose, lips, cheekbones, eyes-- you get my drift, don’t you?”

“...Of course,” he replied, having no _bloody_ idea of what she was going to use these for. “Continue.”

Narcissa went on to list many, _many_ other potions, all dedicated to beauty and biological reformation. Severus had it on good authority that any of these potions’ effects could be achieved with illusion magics -- if one was skilled enough -- so he was quite understandably _stumped._ What would Narcissa need beauty products for? And moreover, she could just order some from her catalogues.

Something strange was afoot. He didn’t like it. _(It felt like the previous “incident”, but what did he know?)_ Perhaps… it was about _Lucius?_

_No,_ he thought, discarding the possibility. _My previous point stands: If Narcissa needed cosmetic potions, she would have just owl-ordered them._

Well-- he would have to wait and see for himself what the _situation_ was.

“I’ll have them ready by lunchtime,” he promised, trying to time everything in his head. Most beauty potions were quick brews, each one taking maximum ten minutes to prepare. If he worked fast and kept his classes short, he might have time to also brew the facial redefiner before leaving for Malfoy Manor. Coincidentally -- or not -- the first potion Narcissa had listed had been the one with the longest brewing process.

“Thank you _so much,_ Severus. I owe you a favor.”

“How about another drinking night instead?”

A surprised expression from her, but a soft smile spread over her lips. “That works as well. Take care, my friend.”

“You too.”

The firecall ended then, leaving him with two hours of classes and many potions to get to. It was time to fold his sleeves and work fast.

***

“Let the smoke _permeate_ your skin, crawl into your pores…”

_If she says it one more time, I’m slapping her with the crystal ball._

Harry was pretty sure that the whole class was five minutes away from a very deadly smoke inhalation case, but crazy old Trelawney wouldn’t let anyone open the window -- the woman wouldn’t see death if it slapped her in the face.

Honestly, his sudden fascination with slapping might have come from the smoke inhalation too. It was hard to think when it was so stifling; sitting sweating from his whole body wasn’t a fun experience. Harry wondered -- not for the first time -- whether an easy O was worth hourly torture every Thursday.

_“Throwback Thursdays are fun,_ they said,” Dean muttered under his breath behind Harry, making Ron snort beside him. _“It’ll be nice and relaxing,_ they said.”

“Stop making me laugh,” Lavender hissed, an _oof_ coming from Dean. Harry reckoned she had shoved him. “We’re going to _offend_ her!”

“Let her. I’m not taking Divination to get sent to Pomfrey--”

“Now let your Inner Eye take control; let it show you the deep mysteries of your psyche…”

Ron leaned over and whispered in Harry’s ear, “Have any mysteries hidden, mate?”

He snickered and Trelawney’s head snapped around to stare disquietingly into his eyes, big and bug-like. “Mr Potter, have you finally unveiled the fog in your mind? Tell us about your visions.”

“Um,” he intoned, knowing as well as everyone else in the class that he had absolutely no idea what that was supposed to mean. “Well… I…”

Suddenly, a figure tall and willowy and pale came to his mind, and he barely suppressed a snort. Well, no one said he couldn’t use a dream. “I saw… a white expanse, completely empty. I was standing alone in the middle of it -- but something was chasing me.”

Trelawney made a drawn-out, throaty voice that sounded as if she had something stuck in her pipe, wheezing. _“And, my child?_ What happened then?”

Dean was apparently having a lot of fun, because his arm came to rest on Harry’s shoulder in faux support -- Harry knew that he was laughing there, because even though there wasn’t a sound, the tremors of his arm were proof enough. Ron faced away from the scene and made a whimpering sound. Harry envied him _so bad_ for being able to laugh right now.

“Then,” he continued, forming his face into a somber expression, “I was caught by a figure. It looked humanoid, but it was-- _very tall,_ and very pale. White like _bones.”_

The professor made another fearful, squealing sound that finally cracked Lavender, making a squeak-ish sound escape her. Harry hoped that those guys were milking this as much as they could. They owed him one for being the scapegoat. “Yes, I turned around and saw it, but I was rooted in my spot. I couldn’t move. It started gliding toward me and started speaking-- his mouth opened vertically and it was black -- and his eyes were black too -- and said, _‘Can’t run, can’t hide.’”_

Trelawney practically threw herself over her shawl-decorated desk, knocking aside some dusty tomes in her anguish. “My dear child!” she screeched, pointing a tremulous finger at Harry. In a dramatic fashion, she moved toward him and murmured, “There is a black sign in your aura… yes, I can see it clearly. You are being _hunted!_ There is a dangerous foe afoot, trailing your every footstep! You will perish soon!”

With that, Dean, Lavender and Ron all burst into a fit of cackles, making Harry slap his forehead in resignation. Trelawney glanced around in confusion, but apparently didn’t know what to do with them and went ahead with the rest of the lesson, the dramatic atmosphere ruined.

“A _daaaangerous foe afoot,”_ Ron quoted, twirling the _‘dangerous’._ “I _wonder_ who that could be!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”

But even though the air was friendly and joking, he couldn’t help but think about it. Though Trelawney’s normal predictions were trash, he knew that two prophecies had come true. And… there was the matter of that shadow in Hogsmeade, even though he had convinced himself that it had been a hallucination. What if that hadn’t been what he had thought at first?

“Harry?” Ron asked, tuning out Trelawney’s lecture. “Something wrong?”

“I--” He wanted to tell him, but not here. “I’ll tell you later. Ask me again once we’re with Hermione.”

“Sure.”

***

Meanwhile, said _dangerous foe_ was moping about his less than stellar looks, gloomily glaring at an enchanted mirror.

“This is quite unnecessary,” Voldemort spoke, feeling utterly foolish, surrounded by his few trusted followers. Though he felt a lot less prone to murder them in a fit of anger, he still felt sharply embarrassed in front of them. Never before in his life had he dreaded the spotlight this much! “Narcissa, take this away and leave me be -- as well as you three,” he addressed the rest, Bella and Lucius and Bartemius. They were practically children compared to him, but standing with them, he felt inordinately inadequate. 

“But, my Lord,” Bella crooned. _Ah,_ sweet Bellatrix. She had been a perky, excitable little thing in her youth. He remembered the day he welcomed her to his ranks, beaming with happiness right at his face. Even though she was nearly forty right now, a fragment of beauty remained within her. How Voldemort envied Bellatrix for her fortunate looks… “We must not leave you unattended! You’re much too precious to be self-deprecating!”

Unknowing of how to react to being ‘ _precious’,_ he felt his cheekbones tingle with the flood of blood, his serpentine senses much more in tune with his body's reactions. _Curse these fools,_ he was _flushing._ Shameful, absolutely _shameful_ of him. “I’m not. Stop speaking lies.”

“But it’s not a lie!” Bella begged, throwing herself at his feet. He could always count on her to be over-the-top, unfortunately. “My Lord, you are the most beautiful being in existence to me. Your skin--”

“Which is littered in scales and deathly pale--”

“--is lily-white and your scales glisten in the moonlight, and your face--”

“Which looks like a bashed-in skull, with a half-carved off nose--”

“--is gorgeous, elegant, _mesmerizing._ Your cheekbones are sharp and sophisticated, your eyes are the deepest, most iridescent red I’ve ever seen. Your lips--”

“You mean my _nonexistent_ lips?” Voldemort countered, raising a doubtful brow. _Merlin --_ he didn’t even _have_ brows. He looked like an unfinished human being moulded by God, if God actually existed. Once the potion had ended, he had been finally able to turn an eye toward himself and realize how _pathetic_ he was--

_Do not think about the potion. This is trouble enough._

He carefully compartmentalized the two topics apart, focusing on the current issue. “I’m all right. You are all making unnecessary fuss about this.”

Lucius had come in drunk, the imbecile. _(He had to admit that now that he had less of a filter, he liked calling people imbeciles. The word rolled off his tongue so pleasantly.)_ He had stumbled in with the trademark strut of a drunkard, and murmured about having come to his rescue, when he had been gently steered by an embarrassed Narcissa to the loveseat at the balcony. Barty had arrived with Bella, who had been in such an alarmed state that she had dragged the poor boy with her. He looked utterly miserable. Together, the Black Sisters had manned the job of making him believe their empty words -- _unsuccessfully._ Lord Voldemort didn’t _need_ pretty compliments. What he needed was _stability_ and _calm_ and--

_How many times do I have to TELL_ _you?_ he raged at his mind. _Do NOT think about it!_

It was easier said than done, however.

“I shall not step out,” Bella proclaimed like a noble knight, seeking to duel for the virtue of her beloved maiden. The analogy made him wince, for _he_ would be the innocent, charming maiden in the story; but he was digressing -- _where_ was his mind?

“Oh, you _shall,”_ Voldemort growled at last, fully prepared to remove her from his chambers, even if it came down to a physical, fist-to-fist clash. He had been at the other end of punches and clawing far too many times in the past, but he wasn’t afraid of returning to his roots and using--

He wasn’t afraid of _returning to his roots?_

_That is odd_ , he thought, feeling a small surge of panic. He wasn’t feeling as wary as he should be. Anything related to his humble past, he used to loathe to the level of _destroying_ the reminder on sight, but here he was, persisting with this-- this _unnatural calm?_ This irrational logic? How was he so clear-minded? It had been like this too, he remembered, during the early stages of the potion, when he had been so bright-eyed and in awe like a child. But now, it wasn’t naive curiosity -- it was an entirely too soothing common sense, flowing through his body with each pump of his heart. 

The potion had done something. He was _sure_ of it. He needed -- well, he needed--

The door opened, and Severus Snape entered with a basket on his arm, his pose looking like a girl strolling through a meadow more than a grown and stern potioneer. “Narcissa, I brought… the…”

He trailed off, taking in the sight of poor little Barty crouching in a corner, head in his arms. Then his gaze fell to Lucius’ snoring form, then to Bella and Narcissa, who stood flanking Voldemort at his sides. When, at last, Severus looked directly into his eyes, the man spoke, incredulous, “What in _tarnation_ happened here?”

***

In the end, the three adults managed to convince the Dark Lord that he was _slightly, aesthetically pleasing to the eyes._ He would not stand for any of them praising his appeal, nor tolerate them finding him beautiful, but he responded to “objective” compliments marvelously.

“The structure of your body is perfectly efficient,” Narcissa spoke, poking at his weakness like a child using a knife for the first time -- all too entranced by the dangerous allure and completely ecstatic at the power in her hands. “Your eyes must perceive color differently than most people -- I cannot imagine how glorious that would be, to see the world with such eyes. I envy you for them, my Lord.”

“And your teeth,” Bella tried, but she still slipped into calling him _‘pretty’_ far too much. “Your teeth are sharp as a Grindylow’s--”

“Not a _Grindylow,”_ Narcissa hissed, elbowing her. 

“Ahem, I meant, a _Basilisk’s._ Your teeth are strong and sharp as a mighty King of Serpents’, and the way your mouth opens like a snake is _fascinating!_ I can never stop staring in awe every time you do it, and I am rather _starved_ for the sight.”

“And your long, graceful legs!” Narcissa gushed, obviously forcing herself to be appreciative. “They look as capable as a swift gazelle’s! I will always be jealous of them, unfortunately.”

“Severus, join in,” Bella whispered to the man, almost seeming panicked.

Severus sighed and cursed inwardly once again, grumbling one more time how he _despised_ the events that led to this evening. “Yes… I can certainly accept that your new… _vessel_ is a thing of absolute genius. Constructing a body out of… What had it been?”

“Mere ritualistic materials. Not even a single part of his own, original body.”

“Ah, yes. It is quite the enigma how you were even able to build something so functional, despite the lacking ingredients. I am rather stupefied that you were able to _breathe_ in this golem at all.” _I won’t deny that a part of me hoped that you would just drop dead immediately afterward._ “And the fact that this body is so _superior_ in the senses, compared to an ordinary human? _Ridiculous,_ but it is true nevertheless. My Lord, I must profess that I am confused -- this _coy_ act does not suit you. You must be aware that you are above the shallowness of conventional beauty standards; aren’t you?”

_He is right,_ Voldemort thought, taken aback. _I am… above the beauty standards humans are beholden to. I am practically my own species! I have carved myself out of magic and blood, and here I am -- sulking about my apparent “ugliness”?_

Something wasn’t right with this picture. He wasn’t the sort to cry over lacking looks -- _was it because he had never been truly ugly?_ Even during his teenage years, the problems that troubled his peers never burdened his shoulders. His skin never broke out, and his voice never cracked. It had been a blessing for him -- that poor Mudblood orphan, always looked down upon and underestimated. It had given him a slight yet visible advantage over his Pureblood classmates, who had prided themselves on their superior blood, but had received blemishes just like every Muggleborn at Hogwarts. It had set Tom apart, in a way.

But now, he had no need for such empty concerns. For one, he was _old --_ this body didn’t show his age, but he had been born in 1926 -- goodness, it had been _so long._ He wasn’t so shallow anymore. He didn’t care for his looks, except… Except…

“I am… quite possibly losing my mind,” he spoke, considerate of his words. His followers looked concerned, but he disregarded their expressions. “I feel so _unlike_ myself, that I’m not sure I am me at all. Ah, how do I explain this? It feels as though a part of me, whom I had cherished, has disappeared.”

“That is quite understandable,” Narcissa spoke up, ever eager to fix him. Ambitious little girl, always looking to solve problems. How… _cute_ of her. Lord Voldemort hadn’t thought about _cute_ things in decades. _(Except for the potion’s duration, but he wasn’t thinking about that.)_ “You have been leaning on this side of yourself for so long, but you have changed. It’s natural to feel a sense of loss.”

“But It’s _gone.”_ He knew this to be the truth. It was most peculiar. “It is as if it was _never_ there. I feel like a new man, born anew from my blankets--” Ah. 

Well, that was probably not the best thing to use in that analogy. For the first time in forever, Voldemort felt the hot embarrassment of a social faux pas, and he determinedly ignored the upward twist of Malfoy's lips. She had seen him snuggled into those sheets far too many times.

“Ahem,” he intoned, wishing to go back to bed and never return. “As I said, something in the potion must have done this to me. I don’t know how much of me you know, Narcissa -- but a change of this magnitude, just because of a love potion? I would say it’s unlikely, had I not _known_ that it is outright _impossible._ Love potions do not change who a person is at their core.”

“They do not,” Severus agreed. “However… I have reason to believe that Amortentia might be a different case.”

_How?_

“I’d heard about the potion being unparalleled in its power,” Narcissa spoke, twirling a thread of hair with her fingers. Bella was listening enthusiastically. “I believe I read somewhere that if one ingested the potion long enough, however, they would fall in true love.”

_Ridiculous. That is virtually impossible._

“Ridiculous,” Severus snapped, unknowingly amusing Lord Voldemort, who had been thinking the exact same thing. “While it may be possible in the theoretical sense, it can’t be ever proven in real life. The potion has a _cauldron limit,_ for Merlin’s sake -- therefore, no one can fall in love because of Amortentia. Where did you read it, Narcissa? You can’t have seen an article like that in a reputable Potions magazine.”

“I believe it was in _Enchanting Elixirs,_ by one _Julius Taurus?”_

The potioneer sneered, almost reflexively. “That _dimwit?_ He is _lucky_ to have received his Mastery in the subject. I have skimmed a few of his works -- that _dunderhead’s_ mind is full of superstition, and not even the beneficial ones! _He_ thinks that pebbles have _feelings!”_

“There is a study about it, though,” Narcissa remarks, contrary just for the sake of it. Lord Voldemort tired of it soon, however, and ended the argument about whether all superstition was true or not.

“You are not children,” he spoke imperiously. “You are grown mages, and you will _act like it._ Now -- _what_ was that about that theory? The one, who was it, _Julius Taurus_ had penned?”

“Oh, it is the _silliest_ thing,” Narcissa said, as if she hadn’t spent the last ten minutes defending its credibility, “Taurus claims that the potion is _alive.”_

“That’s _nonsense,”_ Severus added rudely, but shrunk at the glare he received from Voldemort. “I apologize, but I cannot fathom how it could be true. It sounds even less likely than the dead coming back.”

“Yes, I suppose, to someone who has never experienced it himself, it would sound like complete gibberish,” Lord Voldemort mocked, a frown falling upon his brow. “Nonetheless, it sounds like the most _fascinating_ article. Narcissa, would you be able to find a copy of it for me?”

“Of course, my Lord.” She bowed with a buoyant and cheerful swing, and exited the room mumbling about manuals and old archives.

And it struck Voldemort, the man under the golem’s face, that she did not fear him right now.

She was warm. The warmth that he had been feeling from Nagini, from beautiful beads and old exploits, had connected to humans, and now he could feel the warmth of those around him.

He thought numbly about Bellatrix’s admiration, her soft and glimmering eyes waxing poetic about his _scales_ and _eyelids,_ and it rankled how utterly _careful,_ how _gentle_ she was.

He thought, once again, about Narcissa’s calm protection -- her wise guidance and her chilly, unique warmth. So different from her sister’s, yet so _similar._ She had unwrapped the cocoon he had hidden himself in, and let him face the world with clues placed like breadcrumbs, letting him find his way out.

He thought about _Nagini._ His lovely, brilliant little companion. Voldemort thought about her green, beautiful scales and her ticklish tail end. He thought about her annoying tendency to pick her food, even though it was against both self-preservation and nature; and her child-like wonder! Her warmth was like summer rain, with the drizzle mixing in with sunshine, and creating radiant prisms of color.

_Merlin,_ he couldn’t think of a world without her. The _warmth_ of her -- he was always cold. Lord Voldemort hadn’t been too bothered, but _Voldemort_ had hated that cold. Under who he was on the outside, toward everyone else, he had hated his isolated wasteland, built to contain a violent sadness.

It had been freezing in that distant land, where flowers didn’t grow and the sun didn’t reach the earth. He could see those around him -- through frosted glass -- overflowing with heat and passion. He had seen them direct that volley toward their loved ones.

Voldemort had, perhaps, _desired_ that warmth; aimed at _him_ instead.

And it was _heartbreaking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news my dears -- I have been ordered to (guess by who) solve 300 questions everyday. This puts quite the sizeable dent in my update schedule, so I will have to make it a monthly schedule instead of a weekly one. Sorry about this everyone, but this year will be VERY busy 😔


	12. Abundans cautela non nocet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Abundant caution does no harm. (OR) One can never be too careful._
> 
> (Basically, a fancy way of saying "CONSTANT VIGILANCE".)

_ While the sparkling substance is a hallmark of our ‘curiosity killed the cat’ stories, Amortentia does this so in a whole other way. We have been bewitched from the start; first with the irresistible ‘mother of pearl’ sheen, then with the delectable smell of nostalgic yearning, and finally with the addictive mouthfeel as it goes down our gullet. Amortentia is the perfect bait for us foolish wizards who are starving for something exciting in this equally foolish life-- _

“I heard that our Lord’s beloved was  _ Harry Potter,  _ Severus,” Narcissa started, and Severus promptly bid farewell to his peaceful reading time with a surprised, choking sound.

“...He  _ was,”  _ he confirmed, putting down the book. “How did you learn?”

“Straight from the source, of course. Just today.”

There were only three people who knew the truth; one of them was at Hogwarts, the other was him, and only one left was the person of interest himself.

“The  _ Dark Lord  _ told you that he was in love with  _ that boy?”  _ he repeated, unable to digest this sentence. “And how did that topic come up?”

“Never mind that --  _ you  _ didn’t tell me who he’s in love with!” she accused, setting aside a random issue of  _ Cauldron Crushes, 1932.  _ “I thought  _ you  _ of all people would have told me about the strangest love story in the history of Britain!”

He held the bridge of his nose to calm himself. “That might be because  _ it’s not a love story,  _ Narcissa. It’s more like a  _ horror  _ story _ ,  _ where innocent -- no matter how much troublemaking -- children are being snatched by a terrifying monster.”

“Semantics. He has studiously tried to crack the code and find out the reason for this momentous…  _ series of events,  _ yet he has been unsuccessful. I have seen him in the study, searching like a madman -- it probably helped that he has less need for proper nutrition.”

“As he mentioned before, I believe,” Severus said, “his current body is a  _ golem. Golems  _ generally do not need sustenance.”

“Will you stop being sarcastic for a  _ moment?  _ I’m trying to gossip here.” She made a sound of pleased surprise. “I’ve found it, I think. Let’s see -- Julius… Julius…  _ Yes!  _ I merely need page twelve and thirteen; a copying charm will be sufficient.”

While Narcissa waited for the spell to do its job, Severus attempted to evade her increasingly probing questions and get some rare recreational reading. As it was, he failed spectacularly -- Narcissa Malfoy was a monster of a woman, parading around under human skin. She managed to weasel the details of Potter’s gift from him, gently cooing at the brief mention of flowers.

“He really did send him flowers then,” she spoke, a horribly  _ fond  _ smile on her face. Severus wanted to vomit. “Of course, I wasn’t sure that my encouragements had gotten through to him--”

“Wait a  _ minute,”  _ he growled, this time properly putting the book away.  _ “You  _ were the reason for this--  _ this?  _ I don’t even have words! How could you?”

“What, should I not have? Did the raven maul the boy too?”

_“That’s not the point!”_ he exclaimed, because it _wasn’t._ Lord Voldemort was sending Harry Potter flowers, and she couldn’t see the issue? Or rather, _issues?_ “There are so many layers to this problematic pair that I could write an _essay_ on it!”

“Write it,” she dared, raising an eyebrow, and he suddenly wished he could just  _ let go  _ and lose his composure -- or perhaps a good hair pulling and screaming session would suffice,  _ please. _

“Alright,” he said instead, forcibly calming himself down. “First thing first -- the Dark Lord is  _ old.  _ Now, it might not seem that way, but the man is practically a relic of history. Merlin,  _ he’s older than your father,  _ Narcissa.”

“I am aware? He was born a bit earlier than my father; I know his birth year.”

Severus wanted for a mere second to ask how she had learnt it, but promptly decided against it. “Well, then you must know the age difference between a boy of  _ sixteen  _ and a man older than  _ fifty?” _

“More than--” She paused for a moment. “--thirty four. Yes, I am aware of the age difference, but I do believe that our Lord’s physical age… is not so  _ indicative  _ of his mind’s age.”

He was going to continue, but the copying spell took that second to finish, disappearing with a puff of glittering smoke.

“It seems we are done!” Narcissa erupted in mirth, though it was obvious just from looking that she was looking for a disruption. “We can now deliver the article to our Lord!”

“...Yes, such a  _ joyous  _ occasion,” he drawled, slightly incredulous yet willing to let this slide. He let the interesting book lay on the desk with a mournful sigh; it had been so delightfully dramatic with just the  _ right  _ level of knowledge, but it didn’t take a genius to see that it belonged to the Dark Lord rather than the Malfoys. He would rather risk his own neck in a duel than ask the man for a book in his  _ private collection,  _ no doubt with extraneous appendices added by his own hand. For an insane dictator-want-to-be, the Dark Lord was an expert at everything magical.

They walked back to the Dark Lord’s wing with a steady pace, Narcissa leading so she would not be forced into conversation again. How subtly manipulative of her. Severus hadn’t been expecting anything else anyway.

When they arrived, it was to the scene of Bartemius Crouch being pinched on the cheeks by Bellatrix, that mad woman. The boy -- for he  _ was  _ a boy, compared to the others in the room -- was sullen and scornful, clawing at her hands while yowling like a stray cat.

“Let me  _ go,  _ woman! Shoo! Shoo, I tell you! Your wiles don’t work on me!”

“How dare you? My wiles work  _ just fine,  _ I’m a married witch with a happily wedded husband!”

“No  _ offspring  _ to speak of though, have you?” Bartemius laughed in her face, dashing into the corridor -- knocking into Narcissa -- and running away from Bellatrix’s screaming ire.

“Come in,” the Dark Lord welcomed them, looking quite exasperated as he sat on the sofa, documents strewn on the table in front of him like a deck of cards. “You missed most of the excitement, fortunately.”

“We found the article, my Lord,” Narcissa spoke, sitting down in one smooth motion. Severus did also take a seat, eyeing the two warily. He wasn’t so sure about what Narcissa meant about the Dark Lord’s…  _ mind age,  _ except for the earlier conversation he had been  _ forced to partake in.  _ The man didn’t seem much different -- or at least, not different in the way Narcissa alluded to.

The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow. “Give it over then.”

Narcissa obeyed graciously, reclining back and waiting for the man to finish. The Dark Lord took his time; he narrowed his eyes at certain passages and murmured under his breath, mouthing words in a speed Severus couldn’t catch. As he read, Severus couldn’t help but note each twitch of the man’s brows -- nonexistent as they may be -- and several accidental micro expressions that graced the man’s limited features.

_ I suppose Narcissa’s observations have some merit,  _ he thought.  _ He is emoting much more than I’ve ever seen him do. _

“What an idiot,” the Dark Lord huffed, the sound both amused and condescending. “He has some valid points, but he was too eager with his new theory. It’s obvious just looking at the transition from an objective essay to creative brainstorming -- he should have kept to the basics. He probably needed to reach the word count minimum.”

“My exact thoughts,” Severus remarked, waiting for the man’s judgement.

The Dark Lord waved the papers, as if he was using them to…  _ fan himself?  _ He didn’t seem feverish, merely bored. He reclined back into the seat, limbs sprawling and legs on top of each other. “I think I agree with his idea, however. The potion has  _ some  _ sentience. I remember my last moment before I…  _ fell.  _ I remember trying to fight it, but as soon as thoughts of  _ him  _ appeared, I could not defend my mind.”

“Then we must venture further with that theory,” Narcissa suggested, folding her hands on her lap like a businesswoman. “Have you  _ any  _ idea why the potion might have chosen Mr Potter, instead of you, my Lord?”

The Dark Lord froze, his makeshift fan pausing in its movements, and his eyes riveted on Severus. “You know? You have  _ known?” _

“My Lord,” he spoke out, knowing this to be an extremely delicate matter. “It was a slip of the tongue, on your part. I could not  _ unhear it  _ after I heard it. Forgive me.”

The Dark Lord still looked stricken, but now his mind was far away. He started fanning again, hesitantly, as if he were not aware that he was doing the motion at all. “Yes, I suppose that explains it. When was this?”

“The night you called me urgently, and asked to view my memories.”

The Dark Lord’s face brightened in recognition, a strange hiss leaving his mouth. “I remember now.  _ Merlin  _ \-- I hadn’t slept for a whole day, and I do keep a schedule usually. I should keep track of my mouth from now. As a… gesture of  _ good faith,”  _ the man said, ignoring Narcissa’s beaming, “I will let you keep that information without a curse binding your tongue.”

“Severus is a good friend, my Lord,” Narcissa gushed, making him uncomfortable. It was doubly damning, knowing what he had relayed to Dumbledore.

“Well, I must research more. Narcissa, dear, please wake your husband and have lunch -- I’ll… join you. Later, when I’m finished. Severus, you may return to the castle. Merlin knows how this fiendish woman convinced you to drop your classes for me.”

“Who knows if you will fancy a potion, my Lord?” she defended. “And if the potion needed adjustments, Severus could handle it easily.”

“Yes, that  _ is  _ one my skills, being a Potions Master.”

Then, in a move Severus hadn’t expected, the Dark Lord…  _ rolled his eyes.  _ “You speak as if I’m not capable of brewing the potions myself. I don’t need you to mother me.”

“On the contrary, everyone needs a bit of mothering sometimes, my Lord.”

Looking as awkward as Severus himself felt with her over protective instincts, the Dark Lord patted her knee across the table and said, “There is no need. I need privacy right now, if you would. You are both -- well, dismissed.”

***

  
  


Albus Dumbledore was a busy, withering man whose only colors in life were his many indulgences -- sweets, he rather enjoyed. Seeing merry children in his day-to-day life also did wonders for his mood, as he took great pleasure in seeing young minds being cultivated. Their thoughts were being molded in unexpected and odd ways, sometimes in ways that hadn’t been intended by the instructor. That surprise factor had been part of the appeal for Albus when he had just begun teaching…

Ah, where was his mind? He was supposed to write letters.  _ Many  _ letters, if he guessed correctly. With the recent developments in war and in the hearts of men -- or rather,  _ one  _ particular man -- Albus had found himself forced to review his overarching plans.

Lucky for him, he wasn’t a man who dealt with uncertainties. In fact, he enjoyed logic and reason much more than whimsical ideals -- and… well. Ideals had their uses sometimes, but they were rather impractical. He had never been shy about his hypocrisy.

_ If Voldemort goes back to how he was,  _ he thought, letting his quill hover on the blank parchment,  _ then everything must continue as it was. Mine had always been a risky plan, but not as risky as what is happening right now. I cannot maintain Tom’s infatuation, neither can I count on it -- but this has the potential to put Harry in even greater risk, heightening the chances of Voldemort’s obsession escalating… There is a possibility that this will result in disaster the likes of I’ve never seen. _

_ But if it persists,  _ Albus dared to think suddenly, surprising himself.  _ If it persists, if Voldemort can find it in his heart to surrender -- then it might work. The war might end. _

The war could end. Right here, right now.

_ Ah, Albus, you old codger,  _ he let himself chuckle good-heartedly.  _ Still entertaining visions of fanciful peace-- _

“HEADMASTER!” Severus Snape opened --  _ kicked  _ open _ ,  _ the nerve of the boy -- the door, making the great croaking wood hit the stone wall of the office, making an awful banging sound echo all over. Goodness gracious -- the acoustics were horrible in here. If Albus regretted anything with accepting the position of Headmaster, it was the sound quality of his office.  _ Now that I think about it,  _ he reminisced,  _ poor old Dippet. _

“Headmaster,” Severus panted yet again, jolting Albus out of his abrupt train of thought. “I must-- There is news. Terrible news -- or is it good? I can never tell with these…”

“Severus, you seem to have gone through an ordeal,” Albus remarked, intrigued. Without waiting, the Potions professor lunged for a seat and slumped over it, as if he had run here. 

“Did you run here?” he asked, actually curious.

“I did, a bit,” Severus answered with great pain. “Let me breathe, sir. Please.”

“You ought to get in shape,” Albus commented with a titter, taking a toffee from the bowl of sweets and popping it into his mouth. “You aren’t getting any younger, my boy.”

“Look at yourself then.”

“Oh, but I’m half in the grave already,” he said, “it’s not the same! You’re barely middle aged.”

Severus grumbled some more, finally catching his breath. Poor thing, he had always been tall and lanky -- hardly a good stature to run about with.

“I have news,” the man started then, finally willing to divulge. Albus leaned in interestedly, face turning somber once he realized Severus’ mood. “It has to do with the Dark Lord.”

“Has he summoned you?” Albus asked, disquieted. He hadn’t been expecting Voldemort to act quite so efficiently.

Severus nodded grimly, then turned the motion into a side to side shake. “Not quite… I was summoned by Narcissa.”

“And? What did she ask?”

“This is where it gets surreal, I’m afraid,” Severus sighed, his voice almost a grumble. “I suppose I must begin with the biggest news, and the more…  _ easily digestible one.  _ The Dark Lord -- he is still in love, Headmaster.”

Albus sat silent, staring at the face of his former student, locked in a battle of gazes. “...And that is bad news?”

Severus’ jaw unhinged and he gawked. “Why does everyone say the same?!”

“Merlin, Severus, you very nearly sent me to an early grave. Relax,  _ rejoice!  _ We now have another path to this plan of madness, one that had been completely unavailable to us before!”

In the privacy of his mind, dead nerve endings now began firing off, lighting up with new ideas and terrific possibilities. His most helpless hopes had become true -- Albus needed to savor this, for good luck didn’t visit him often. Now, he could strive for the peace he had always dreamed of.

_ It has persisted,  _ Albus confirmed.  _ He has surrendered his heart. He has surrendered the  _ **_war._ **

***

Severus told him of the encounter, of the Dark Lord’s strange new mannerisms and his suspiciously functional emotional capacity. Albus listened with an utmost care to Severus’ impressions and his flimsy theories, for those were all they had right now.

“This is valuable information,” he spoke, knowing the weight of his words and the weight of the man’s actions. Albus did demand a lot from him -- no other could cast aside their attachments and spy on their own pseudo-family. For that, he was regretful; not regretful enough to stop, however. Severus was a great aid.

“Indeed,” Severus drawled, dabbing a handkerchief to his temple. “I must go back to my classes now. I had a free period -- I’d wanted to grade essays -- but unfortunately this has wasted all my time.”

“Yes; thank you, Severus. I appreciate your services.”

As he stood and walked to the door, the professor sniffed haughtily and murmured  _ ‘services’,  _ closing the door behind him with more force than necessary. Perhaps spending so much time around petulant teenagers was affecting his temperament?

_ Never mind that,  _ Albus told himself, setting his gaze back on the empty parchment. “A letter for an old friend. It’s been a while, Nicholas. I do hope you didn’t immediately jump into a volcano.”

***

  
  


Once back at the common room, Harry sat Hermione and Ron down to explain his weird encounter. Of course, not without a  _ Muffliato  _ charm.

“It was back in Hogsmeade,” he said, feeling secretive and a bit ridiculous. Like that time he had told his friends about the Dursleys, the cupboard. “I was looking for Katie, remember that? I lost them, and I was in a quiet alley. I stopped there and caught my breath and… Honestly, it was  _ really  _ creepy, but I don’t know if it was real at all. I might have imagined it.”

“What was it?”

“I just turned around and there it was,” Harry continued in a rush, “a silhouette. Tall and thin and standing under the shadows. I couldn’t see its face, but I knew that it was looking at me. It was…  _ frightening.  _ Yeah. Then Ron was there and I turned my head again, but next -- it was gone. I didn’t think about it until the nightmare--”

“Wait, that was real?” Ron asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Oh shit. You  _ were  _ describing a dream!”

“What dream?” Hermione said, following with Ron recounting Harry’s nightmare to her.

“It might have been the Dark Lord,” Hermione said in a hushed tone, eyes wide. “Merlin, Harry! You should have told us sooner!”

“I’m with her on this one, mate,” Ron backed her up. “Seriously. That sounds just like the Grim one.”

“The Grim was  _ Sirius,  _ so it didn’t mean anything. Maybe this also doesn’t?” Harry said, but he wasn’t sure either.

Ron shook his head, looking pale and a bit sickly. “No, this is something else. You’ve never hallucinated before. It’s not very reasonable to think that you would have hallucinated that out of nowhere. But… Your scar? Did it react?”

“Not at all,” he answered, instinctively rubbing it. “To be honest, it hasn’t done anything for months. It might be linked to what Dumbledore alluded to.”

“There is a high possibility,” Hermione agreed, chin tucked and a frown on her brow. “I don’t know, this all sounds awfully sinister, but I have no idea what it might be. If it  _ was  _ the Dark Lord -- why wouldn’t he kill you when he had the opportunity? Especially when he’s sneaked into Hogsmeade? It wasn’t long enough to spy on you either, and he could do that with your connection much more easily.

“If it  _ wasn’t,  _ though -- if it was a hallucination, then wouldn’t that mean--” She paused suddenly, frozen. “Harry, wouldn’t that mean that your scar is doing something to you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, but his insides felt soaked in ice.

“If… If your scar is on your forehead -- which is where the frontal lobe is, and so very close to your brain -- doesn’t that mean that it has a close connection to your  _ mind?  _ And if it’s close to your mind, it is close enough to  _ affect  _ it.”

“Merlin,  _ that’s right!”  _ Ron whispered, completely caught in her theory. “Harry, Voldemort  _ could  _ be making you crazy.”

“But I haven’t seen anything for a long time,” Harry spoke out, desperate for it to be true. “Not even a vision. It was just that one time, and then nothing.”

“He could be…” Hermione ransacked her brain for something fitting. “He could be trying not to alarm us? So that he can do it without us knowing?”

“How? Can you drive someone mad without making  _ the victim  _ aware of his madness?”

“Mate, there are  _ lots  _ of ways to drive someone mad,” Ron said, “there are many Dark spells, and then there are Dark rituals that can be used to put a mind parasite in your magic, so it will eat your sanity away. And since the parasite feeds from  _ your  _ magic, you can’t just eject it. There -- checkmate.”

“And people just  _ do these?”  _ Harry asked, incredulous and very much scared for his life. “How come we don’t see victims?”

“Well, Saint Mungo's can remove those kinds of parasites if they’re caught early. No matter how advanced the Dark Arts are, Healing is just as advanced, if not  _ more  _ advanced. And those rituals are costly -- not just for the victim and ingredient-wise, but for the mage too.  _ ‘Dark Magic has a price’  _ and all that, you know.”

“I’m so relieved,” Harry deadpanned, still feeling restless. “Well, in any case, that wasn’t Voldemort, and I’m not going mad. Probably. Most likely. That’s not to say that someone else won’t try to hurt me though. What if that wasn’t  _ Voldemort,  _ but another Dark mage?”

Ron’s eyes gleamed. “What about your  _ paramour?” _

“My --  _ what?” _

“Oh,” Hermione intoned, blinking at the sudden suggestion. “Goodness, why didn’t I think of that?”

“What are you two talking about?”

“Mate, Harry,  _ the raven.  _ Maybe a Dark wizard just saw you running around and… thought you were  _ dashing?” _

“Are you seriously punning  _ right now?”  _ Harry asked, but answered, “No. There is no way that’s what happened. I don’t care what you think but love at first sight is a  _ myth,  _ Ron. It just doesn’t exist.”

“But it  _ could!  _ People say it happens, so it must happen sometimes at least!”

“I’ve read that it happens  _ sometimes,”  _ Hermione chimed in, the lover of statistics. “There are studies about it.  _ And  _ it’s thought to be a legitimate biological phenomenon.” 

“There you are, even though I’ve no idea what  _ ‘biology’ _ covers,” Ron said, and Harry knew that he had lost that round. “Anyway, why wouldn’t someone fall for you? You’re brilliant.”

“That means less when it comes from my best friends, you know.”

Sometimes Harry thought that Ron and Hermione were a bit blind about how utterly boring he was. Sure -- he was decent at Defense, and he was a good Quidditch player, but he didn’t really do a lot. There wasn’t much time to  _ do  _ a lot. Between Dumbledore’s lessons and school and Quidditch captaincy and Sirius’ letters and friends, Harry’s schedule didn’t have time for more, short of abandoning sleep to do as he wished.

The conversation was about to continue, but out of the blue their  _ Muffliato  _ charm broke as someone entered the circle.

“Hey guys,” Lavender greeted, sitting next to Hermione on the sofa. They all spoke their  _ hellos  _ and the serious conversation was over in favor of Lavender’s pretty gossip.

And apparently, Lavender had a lot to unload onto them, who were unsuspecting fools.

“Why would Smith dare Neville to  _ kiss  _ him?” Hermione asked, which was a valid question. “They don’t like each other, do they?”

“Sweetie, if you think love is necessary for a hanky-panky, guess again,” Lavender answered, throwing a saucy smirk at her. “Smith is an asshole anyway. No one actually dates him for his personality, you know. That’s more up Cedric’s alley.”

“But he graduated, didn’t he?” Ron asked. “And isn’t he dating Cho Chang now?”

“Yeah, but you remember Doriane and Genowefa? After he and Cho took a break, he tried dating them -- separately -- but they didn’t work out. Apparently he was  _ ‘very charming’ _ . Anyway -- Smith is an asshole, Cedric isn’t. That’s the difference.”

“Why would someone date Smith if not for his personality?”

“For his  _ dick,  _ what else?” Lavender tittered, making Harry choke. “Assholery isn’t good for a relationship, but looks like it’s good for a lay.”

“Where do you all go to shag anyway? Aren’t the classrooms public spaces?” Ron said, and Harry decided that enough was enough and he had to remove himself from the talk -- before he combusted.

“I’m going back to the dorm,” he told them, a flush on his cheeks. “Feeling sleepy.”

One thing was certain -- maybe he wasn’t straight, but Smith’s package wasn’t something he wanted to think about. Ever. Good riddance.

***

Malfoy had been looking at him weirdly.

Harry had noticed it sometime last week, but today it was a hell lot more obvious. When he thinks Harry doesn’t know, he lingers around and stares intensely at the back of his head. Malfoy’s intentions might be innocent -- but Harry is one hundred percent sure that he is a Death Eater, so it’s  _ not  _ innocent. No matter what Ron says, something peculiar is happening.

Dumbledore knows something, at least. Snape knows as well. If  _ they  _ know, there is a chance that they are doing something about it, but Harry has learnt not to trust adults to keep the danger away. The  _ end-of-year  _ events taught him so.

“Is he looking again?” he asked, and Hermione nodded. “Christ.”

“This is our sign,” Ron said dramatically. “You-Know-Who has commanded him to start your descent into madness. He is torturing you psychologically.”

“I really don’t think that’s the case; but sure, let me ask him.”

Ron’s faux somber voice devolved into a series of snorts, and Hermione elbowed him on the shoulder.

It wasn’t  _ quite  _ a joke however. With how often Malfoy’s been gazing at him, Harry almost wondered if it had something to do with Voldemort. He decided to corner him somewhere isolated after classes -- he had also noticed that Malfoy’s been stalking him around, almost as if he was taking revenge for Harry’s obsession this year.

Lunch passes, and soon so does dinner, giving way to the large block of time between the evening and the curfew of ten o’clock. Harry tells his friends his plan and rushes ahead, making it seem like he had somewhere to go.  _ Urgently. _

As expected -- and to Harry’s triumph -- Malfoy began following his steps almost immediately, though he was very quiet about it. 

Unluckily for him, Harry had practice with being stalked.

He led the Slytherin to the seventh floor corridor, the one with the portrait of dancing trolls. Malfoy had been spending an awful lot of time here and Harry knew that it would make him ill at ease. Halfway there, he had applied a Disillusionment Charm on himself -- possibly disproving Hermione’s Imperius Curse theory -- so Harry didn’t know if he was close or not.

_ What to do now?  _ he wondered, caught between calling Malfoy out and keeping up with the duplicity. “I know you are there, Malfoy. I just want to talk.”

Expectedly, no one answered. Harry felt a pang of disappointment at having failed, but a moment later a voice spoke out.

“What do you want, Potter?”

“What do  _ you  _ want?” he shot back, keeping his back to the wall. He wasn’t sure that Malfoy wouldn’t shoot him in the back, so he took the necessary precautions. “You’ve been hanging around lately. What, did you miss me?”

“You  _ wish,”  _ the Slytherin answered. He was still Disillusioned, which rendered him somewhat impervious to a spontaneous duel. “If I had a choice--”

He fell silent.  _ As expected,  _ Harry thought, feeling unexpectedly confident. He felt as though he could predict Malfoy  _ perfectly,  _ without even one discrepancy. It was an odd yet heady emotion. 

_ ‘If I had a choice,’ he said. _

“Has Voldemort ordered you to spy on me?” he asked to the void, receiving only a scuff of shoes. He thought he could see a slight runniness to the pattern of stones, which meant that the charm was almost snuffed out. “I know that he has been up to something.”

Time stood still, and they both stood together, when Malfoy’s spell suddenly fell and he darted to the stairs, Harry bolted after him without any contemplation. Malfoy hopped down the stairs in twos, threes, fours, and Harry used a hovering spell on his feet to catch up to him. At the corner where the stairs turned, Malfoy maneuvered sharply and Harry had to hold the railing to halt himself.

“Stop!” he shouted after him, but Malfoy didn’t stop.

“Go fuck yourself, Potter!” was his answer. At that point, Malfoy had slipped into a sixth floor corridor, disappearing from view.

_ “Fuck,”  _ Harry mumbled to himself, canceling the hover charm. “I almost had him.”

But he had  _ confirmation  _ now. Malfoy’s reaction had been more telling than the Slytherin realized, which was an advantage to Harry and his friends.

***

“It’s a smart strategy,” Hermione said, a spoon full of fruits in her hand. She let the spoon back into her bowl and supported her chin with her hands, elbows on the table. “The Dark Lord is employing Occlumency against you, isn’t he? That means if he attacks you, he will be left vulnerable as well.  _ Which  _ means that he is using his follower to gather information on you.”

“Excuse me,  _ what  _ information exactly? Malfoy can’t have seen much.”

“Yes, but he has information on which spells you struggle with and which spells you excel at. It might not be much, but it  _ is  _ information.”

“Our wands are incompatible,” Harry emphasized. “We can’t really duel properly. And anyway, if he caught me I’d be dead meat anyways. My only strategy is to pray that he monologues and gets distracted, and gives me the opportunity to escape without him the wiser.”

“You can’t count on luck to survive,” Hermione said disapprovingly. 

At the same time, Ron had spoken, “Your luck  _ is  _ magnificent.”

They both stared at each other in a silent challenge and raised their forks, as if raising swords instead.

“Alright, no fork duels for my honor.”

“Mate,  _ all  _ the fork duels for your honor.”

“Did someone say fork duels?” Seamus Finnegan from a few seats away asked, and in a few moments, the whole Gryffindor table knew the ten tenets of fork dueling. 

“For Harry Potter’s honor, you must duel,” Ron lectured the guys in their year and they saluted, forks with bacon in their hands. “Let it be a fair fight, and his blessing shall protect you from darkness.”

“I can’t believe you created dueling etiquette for  _ fork dueling,” _ Harry said, but no one was listening to him. “I fucking hate you all.”

“For Harry Potter, we will sacrifice our precious food,” Dean Thomas swore solemnly, bowing before him across the table. Harry threw a strawberry on his head, which bounced and hit Lavender’s fork, which had been dueling with Hermione’s forkful of kiwis. The table devolved into a mix of triumphant screeches, wails of defeat and the cackling of villains who were sabotaging duels with makeshift food catapults.

“I should have gone to Slytherin,” Harry muttered, wondering what his life was at this point.

***

“The giants have been very receptive to our offerings,” Bondearth reported, “The current chief, Gormuk, is quite happy with the artifacts we have been bringing him. Apparently he is a fan of agriculture.”

_ “...Agriculture,”  _ Lord Voldemort spoke, incredulous. “The chief of giants is into  _ agriculture.” _

“Yes, the men were also surprised, my Lord. Gormuk has vast fields under his rule, and while the previous chief adored meat and bloodshed over food, this one desires to use these lands for the benefit of his people.”

“Don’t tell me he wants to bring democracy next,” Voldemort said dryly, wondering what his life was at this point. “As long as he promises to ally with us, I see no problem with giving him farming tools. Have you made sure that they won’t shrink back?”

“We have anchored the enchantments, yes. As long as they stay within the boundaries of the giants’ territory, the charms will stay stable.”

“Excellent,” he hissed, wincing at the sound. At this point, it was as instinctive as it was disturbing. While he had been aware that he didn’t look like an ordinary human, he hadn’t thought that he had looked  _ that  _ differently. And now, everything about himself -- the sibilant voice, the lack of a nose, his spindly fingers -- reminded him of his strange visage. In the presence of his followers, this self-consciousness was  _ doubled,  _ if not  _ tripled.  _

_ Master,  _ he heard then, unexpectedly. Nagini was slithering beneath the table, nipping at the heels of his people. They shrieked a bit and flinched, but otherwise didn’t react. Voldemort had informed them that Nagini didn’t enjoy large prey.  _ Master, you must see. _

_ “What, Nagini?”  _ he asked her.  _ “Are you hungry? The rat will feed you if you ask him.” _

_ No, Master,  _ she hissed, petulant.  _ Treasure. I found treasure. You must put magic around them. _

_ “I cannot, Nagini. I am meeting with my followers.” _

_ Let them stay here. We will go and come back. _

_ “Nagini.” _

_ We will be really quick,  _ she whined.  _ We will spell the treasure and come back before they disappear.  _

Voldemort looked back at them, men and women who were busy with the tasks he gave them and the reports he asked them for. He was aware of Nagini’s treasure trove, which she had hidden in a hollow tree, and it was a bit far from the manor. If he went now, he would waste at least an hour.

With a sigh, he rose, for he knew what he would choose.

“Meeting adjourned,” he declared, feeling embarrassed by his decision but unwilling to go back on his word. “I will call for you some other time. Rest assured, that does  _ not  _ mean that you have received an extension. Report to me next week with further progress.”

There was a murmur of  _ yes, my Lord,  _ and Voldemort left the room with Nagini in tow. No doubt that his followers knew he was bending to the whims of his pet, which was his primary source of shame right now.

_ Who cares what they think?  _ he thought suddenly, with a petty viciousness.  _ I’m their Lord. If I decide to dance around in my bathrobe they wouldn’t be able to do anything. _

In retrospect… that was an even more embarrassing image, and Voldemort nearly felt faint with all the blood gathering under his skin, heating up his cheeks. He resolved to forget all about it, and threw the imagery far, far away from the forefront of his mind.

_ Were you thinking of your Harry, Master? _

_ “I was  _ **_not,_ ** _ ”  _ he denied, which was true in that instance, but not so much right now.  _ “Until you reminded me. You mischievous serpent.” _

Nagini made a series of amused noises, which was the snake equivalent of a cackle.

At the hollow tree, Nagini cooed as her treasures were preserved forever. Brilliant blue, red and emerald green dragonflies, glittering flowers of every color, and crystal pebbles from the river.

“I dearly hope that you weren’t in there by yourself,” Voldemort grumbled, worried for her. Merlin -- worrying was an odd emotion. 

Nagini was coiled on top of her pile, napping lightly in peace among his magic. Staring at her, Lord Voldemort realized a truth, and another.

_ I don’t mind these emotions.  _

_ Not anymore, at least. I used to be so afraid of being attached to her, wondering what would I do if I lost her. I kept her docile and sleepy so she would not slither through the forts I built, yet she is inside. _

The walls were down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are used to monthly updates because I love this new schedule. Very relaxed :)))

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome even one letter comments. 'K' is a good idea-- very scrumptious, short and sweet. Perfect.


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